illlliiililleilliilijliiil 


!!;;>);;  i'iJ;U:!;:ii!i;iiiMi!i;-!i!;!>!;;iKlH 


!;hiii;ii;iriiii!;i!i-.)i;ii.i>; 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


'^his  book  is 


'  ■?  i99r 


u/  A  -^  •-•  •"  •*- 


LOS  AlsiGELES,  CAU5 


"His  arm  was  round  ho>r,  her  cheek  was  pressed  to  his,  her  bosom 
heaved  against  him." 


THAT    WHICH    HATH 

WINGS 

A    NOVEL   OF   THE    DAY 


BY 

RICHARD    DEHAN 

AUTHOR    OF  "ONE   BRAVER    THING"    ("THE    DOP    DOCTOR"),  "BETWEEN 
TWO    THIEVES,"   "THE    MAN    OF   IRON,"    ETC. 


"  For  a  bird  of  the  air  shall  carry  the  voice,  and  that  which  hath  wings  shall 
tell  the  matter." — Ecclksias.  x.,  20. 


29891 


G.   P.   PUTNAM'S    SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

Zbc     Ikntcl^crbocfter     press 

1918 


Copyright,   191 8 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 


XEbe  Itnicherbocfier  Drees,  t\eve  ]i?orft 


3 


<=v12-'5 


THESE  LEA  VES  IN 
DEAR  REMEMBRANCE 
FOR  YOUR  CRAVE 
ACROSS      THE     SEA. 


SiDMouTH,  Devon, 

January,   1918. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. PRESENTS    TWO    YOUNG    PEOPLE 

II. DAME    NATURE    INTERVENES       . 

III. — FAIR  Rosamond's  choice 

IV.^ — RAYMOND    OF    THE    S.  AE.  F. 
v.- — THE    BIRD    OF   WAR 
VI. — SHE  RB  RAND 

VII. THE    CONSOLATRIX. 

VIII. MONSEIGNEUR 

IX. SIR    THOMAS    ENTERTAINS 

X. — A  SUPERMAN. 
XI. — PATRINE    SAXHAM    . 

XII. THE    GATHERING    OF    THE    STORM 

XIII. — THE  SUPERMAN 

XIV. A    PARIS    DANCE-GARDEN 

XV. THE  BITE  IN  THE  KISS 

XVI. THE   WIND    OF    JOY 

XVII. INTRODUCES    AN    OLD    FRIEND 

XVIII. SAXHAM    PAYS 

XIX. — BAWNE 

XX. — THE    MODERN    HIPPOCRATES 
XXI. — M ARGOT    LOOKS    IX 


PAGE 
I 

6 

14 
19 
24 
28 

34 

42 
46 

56 
66 

72 

75 

83 

94 

103 

114 

124 

128 

135 
139 


VI 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XXII. 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX.- 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII.- 

XLTII.- 

XLIV. 

XLV.- 

XLVI.- 

XLVII. 


MARGOT    IS    SQUARE 

-A   MODERN    CLUB     . 

■DISILLUSION 

THREE  MEN  IN  A  CAR  . 

A  PAIR  OF  PALS   . 

—SIR    ROLAND   TELLS    A    STORY 
—THE    GOD    FROM    THE   MACHINE 
—A    SECRET    MISSION 
—THE    REAPING 

—VON   HERRNUNG    BAITS    THE    HOOK 
-ADVENTURE  IN  THE  AIR    . 
— BAWNE    LEARNS   THE   TRUTH 
-THE    BROWN    SATCHEL 
-NUMBER   EIGHTEEN 
-HUE    AND    CRY 
-PATRINE    CONFESSES 
-THE   REBOUND 
-A   NIGHT    IN    JULY  . 
-MACROMBIE    IS    SACKED    . 
-SAXHAM    LIES 

-SAXHAM    BREAKS    THE    NEWS 
-THE   PLUNDERED    NEST     . 
-PATRINE    REMEMBERS 
-FLOTSAM    FROM    THE   NORTH    SEA 
AT    NORDEICH   WIRELESS 
— THE   MAN    OF    "THE   DAY " 


PAGE 

189 
197 

216 

232 
241 
248 
256 

266 

285 
290 
296 

311 
316 
326 
330 

339 
354 
363 


Contents 


Vll 


CHAPTER 

XLVIII. — PATRINE    IS    ENGAGED 
XLIX. — ^THE   WAR    CLOUD    BREAKS 
L. — THE    EVE    OF    ARMAGEDDON 
LI. — THE    INWARD    VOICE 

LI  I. KHAKI  .... 

LIII.— FRANKY    GOES    lO    THE   FRONT 

LIV. OFFICIAL    RETICENCE 

LV. — NEWS  OF  BAWNE      . 

LVI. LA  BRABANQONNE   . 

LVII. THE  BELGIAN  WIFE 

LVIII. SHERBRAND  BUYS  THE  LICENCE 

LIX. THE  WOE-WAVE  BREAKS    . 

LX. —  kultur!  ...  .  . 

LXI. — LYNETTE    DREAMS    . 

LXII. ^WOUNDED    FROM    THE   FRONT     . 

LXIII. BAWNE    FINDS    A   FRIEND 

LXIV. — AT    SEASHEERE 

LXV. — GOOD-BYE,  DEAR  LOVE,  GOOD-BYE  ! 
LXVI. — MORE    KULTUR 
LXVII. — THE   QUESTION 
LXVIII. — THE    DEVIL-EGG 
LXIX.— A   MENACE;    AND    GOOD    NEWS  . 

LXX. A    lover's    journey 

LXXI. — LIVING   AND   DEAD 
LXXII. — LOVE   THAT   HAS   WINGS  . 


PAGE 

375 

383 

403 

417 
420 

423 
431 
447 
456 
460 
467 

477 
490 
502 
512 

531 

538 

547 

559 

565 

574 
586 

594 
606 


That  Which  Hath   Wings 


CHAPTER   I 

PRESENTS  TWO  YOUNG  PEOPLE 

In  January,  1914,  Francis  Athelstan  Sherbrand,  Viscount 
Norwater,  only  son  of  that  fine  old  warrior,  General  the 
Right  Honourable  Roger  Sherbrand,  V.C.,  K.C.B.,  first  Earl 
of  Mitchelborough,  married  Margot  Mountjohn,  otherwise 
known  as  "Kittums, "  and  found  that  she  was  wonderfully 
innocent — for  a  girl  who  knew  so  much. 

It  was  a  genuine  love-match,  Franky  being  a  compara- 
tively poor  Guardsman,  with  only  two  thousand  a  year  in 
addition  to  his  pay  as  a  Second  Lieutenant  in  the  Royal 
Bearskins  Plain,  and  Margot  a  mere  Cinderella  in  compari- 
son with  heiresses  of  the  American  canned-provision  and 
cereal  kind. 

It  had  seemed  to  Franky,  standing  with  patent-leathered 
feet  at  the  Rubicon  dividing  bachelorhood  from  Benedictism, 
that  all  his  wooing  had  been  done  at  Margot's  Club.  True, 
he  had  actually  proposed  to  Margot  at  the  Royal  Naval  and 
Military  Tournament  of  the  previous  June,  and  Margot, 
hysterical  with  sheer  ecstasy,  as  the  horses  gravely  played  at 
push-ball,  had  pinched  his  arm  and  gasped  out: 

"  Yes,  but  don't  take  my  mind  off  the  game  just  now; 
these  dear  beasts  are  so  heavenly  !   .    .    .  " 

And  theatres,  film-picture-shows  and  variety  halls,  race- 
meetings,  receptions,  balls  and  kettledrums,  polo  and 
croquet-clubs,  had  fostered  the  courtship  of  Franky  and 
Margot;  but  all  their  love-making  had  been  carried  out  to  the 


2  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

accompanying  hum  of  conversation  and  the  tinkle  of  crystal 
and  silver-plate  in  the  dining-room  of  the  "Ladies'  Social," 
where  Margot  had  her  favourite  table  in  the  glass-screened 
corner  by  the  fire-place;  or  in  the  circular  smoking-room 
with  the  Persian  divan  and  green-glass  dome,  that  Margot 
had  given  the  Club  on  her  nineteenth  birthday;  or  in  the 
boudoir  belonging  to  the  suite  she  had  decorated  for  herself 
on  the  condition  that  no  other  member  got  the  rooms  if 
Margot  wanted  them,  which  Margot  nearly  always  did.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  big,  rambling,  ancient  red-brick  Hall,  stone- 
faced  in  the  Early  Jacobean  manner,  standing  with  its  rare 
old  gardens  and  glass-houses,  lawns  and  shrubberies,  about 
it,  within  sight  and  sound  of  the  Channel,  amidst  pine  and 
beech-woods  carpeted  with  bilberry-bushes,  heathery  moors, 
and  coverts  neck-high  in  July  with  the  Osmimda  regalis 
fern.  The  Hall  belonged  to  Margot,  though  you  never 
found  her  there  except  for  a  week  or  two  in  September  and 
three  days  at  Christmas-tide.  The  first  fortnight  with  the 
birds  was  well  enough,  but  those  three  days  at  Christmas 
marked  the  limit.  Of  human  endurance  Margot  meant, 
possibly.     She  never  vouchsafed  to  explain. 

She  also  possessed  a  house  in  town,  but  just  as  her  deceased 
father's  spinster  sister  lived  at  the  Hall  in  Devonshire,  so 
did  her  dead  mother's  brother  Derek,  with  his  collection 
of  European  moths  and  butterflies  and  other  Lepidoptera, 
inhabit  the  fine  old  mansion  in  Hanover  Square.  Devon- 
shire at  Christmas  marked  the  limit  of  dulness,  but  Han- 
over Square  all  the  London  season  through  beat  the  band 
for  sheer  ghastly  boredom.  .  .  .  Not  that  there  were 
any  flies  on  little  old  London.  .  .  .  Paris  and  Ostend 
were  ripping  places,  and  you  could  put  in  a  clinking  good 
time  at  Monte  Carlo.  .  .  .  Margot  had  tried  New  York 
and  liked  it,  except  for  the  place  itself,  which  made  you  think 
of  illustrations  to  weird  Dunsany  legends  in  which  towering 
temples  climb  up  unendingly  upon  each  other  into  black 
star-speckled  skies.     But  the  Club  and  London,  with  Un- 


Presents  Two  Young  People  3 

limited  Bridge  and  Tango,  constituted  Margot's  idea  of 
earthly  happiness.  She  never  had  dreamed  of  marrying 
anybody — until  Franky  had  arrived  on  the  scene. 

Perhaps  you  can  see  Franky,  with  the  wholesome  tan  of 
the  Auttmin  Manoeuvres  yet  upon  him.  Twenty-seven, 
well-made  and  muscular,  if  with  somewhat  sloping  shoulders 
and  legs  of  the  type  that  look  better  in  Bedford  cords  and 
puttees,  or  leathers  and  hunting-tops,  than  in  tweed  knickers 
and  woollen  stockings,  or  Court  knee-breeches  and  silks. 
Observe  his  well-shaped  feet  and  slight  strong  hands  with 
pointed  fingers,  like  those  of  his  ancestors,  painted  by  Van- 
dyke ;  his  brown  eyes — distinctly  good  if  not  glowing  with 
the  fire  of  intellect,  his  forehead  too  steep  and  narrow;  his 
moustache  of  the  regulation  tooth-brush  kind,  adorning  the 
upper-lip  that  will  not  shiit  down  firmly  over  his  white, 
rather  prominent,  front  teeth.  Cap  the  small  rounded  skull 
of  him  with  bright  brown  hair,  brushed  and  anointed  to 
astonishing  sleekness,  dress  him  in  the  full  uniform  of  a 
Second  Lieutenant  in  the  Bearskins  Plain,  and  you  have 
Franky  on  his  wedding-day. 

Photographs  of  the  happy  couple  published  in  the  Daily 
Wire,  the  Weekly  Silhouette,  the  Lady's  Dictatorial,  and  the 
Photographic  Smile,  hardly  do  the  bridegroom  justice.  In 
that  without  the  busby  his  features  are  fixed  in  a  painful 
grin,  while  in  the  other  there  are  no  features  at  all.  But 
Margot — Margot  in  a  hobble-skirt  of  satin  and  chiffon,  with 
a  tulle  turban- veil,  starred  with  orange-flowers  in  pearls  and 
diamonds,  and  a  long  serpent-tail  train  of  silver  brocade, 
hung  from  her  shoulders  by  ropes  of  pearls,  was  "  almost  too 
swee,"  to  quote  Margot's  Club  friends.  Search  had  been 
made, amongst  the  said  friends,  man}'-  of  whom  were  married, 
for  a  pair  of  five-year-old  pages  to  carry  the  bride's  train; 
but  there  being,  for  some  reason,  a  dearth  of  babies  among 
Margot's  wedded  intimates,  the  idea  had  to  be  given  up. 

The  wedding  was  quite  the  prettiest  function  of  the  season. 
The  eight  bridesmaids  walked  in  moss-green  crepe  de  Chine 


That  Which  Hath  Wines 


&- 


veiled  with  silver-spotted  chiffon.  On  their  heads  were 
skull-caps  of  silver  tissue,  each  having  a  thirty-inch-high 
aigrette  supported  by  a  thin  bandeau  of  gold,  set  with  crys- 
tals and  olivines,  the  gift  of  the  bride ....  Their  stock- 
ings were  of  white  lace  openwork,  the  left  knee  of  each  being 
clasped  by  the  bridegroom's  souvenir,  a  garter  of  gold, 
crystal,  and  olivines.  Silver  slippers  with  four-inch  heels 
completed  the  ravishing  effect. 

0  Perfect  Love!  was  sung  before  the  Bishop's  Address, 
and  the  ceremony  concluded  with  The  Voice  that  Breathed 
and  Stainer's  Sevenfold  Amen.  The  bridal-party  passed 
down  the  nave  to  the  strains  of  the  Wedding  Chorus 
from  Lohengrin.  And  there  was  a  reception  at  the 
Werkeley  Square  house  of  one  of  the  dearest  of  Margot's  in- 
numerable dearest  friends,  and  the  happy  pair  left  in  their 
beautiful  brand-new  Winston-Beeston  touring  car  en  route 
for  the  old  red-brick  Hall  in  Devonshire.  Decidedly  the 
honeymoon  might  have  been  termed  ideal — and  four  sub- 
sequent months  of  married  life  proved  tolerably  cloudless — 
until  Fate  sent  a  stinging  hailstorm  to  strip  the  roses  from 
the  bridal  bower. 

An  unexpected,  appalling,  inevitable  discovery  was  made 
in  Paris  in  the  Grande  Semaine,  at  the  end  of  the  loveliest  of 
June  seasons.  It  utterly  ruined — for  two  people — the  Day 
of  the  Grand  Prix,  that  marks  the  climax  of  the  Big  Week, 
when  the  Parisian  coaching-world  tools  its  four-in-hands  to 
Longchamps  Racecourse,  and  the  smartest,  richest,  and 
gayest  people,  mustered  from  every  capital  of  Europe, 
parade  under  the  chestnut-trees  that  shade  the  sunny  pad- 
dock, to  display  or  criticise  the  creations  of  the  greatest 
couturiers. 

Margot  had  put  on  an  astonishing  gown  for  the  occasion. 
.  .  .  You  will  recall  that  the  summer  dress  designs 
of  1914  were  astonishing;  the  autumn  modes  promised  to  be 
even  more  so,  according  to  Babin,  Touchet,  and  the  Bro- 
thers Paillot,     Skirts — already  as  short  and  as  narrow  as 


Presents  Two  Young  People  5 

possible — were  to  be  even  narrower;  the  Alpha  and  Omega 
of  perfection  would  be  represented  by  the  Amphora  Sil- 
houette. And  ]\Iargot,  revolving  before  her  cheval-glass  in 
a  sheath  of  jonquil-coloured  silk  lisse,  embroidered  with 
blue-and-green    beetle-wings,    found — to    her   horror    and 

consternation 

Shall  one  phrase  it  that  Dame  Nature,  intent  upon  her 
essential,  unfashionable  business  of  reproduction,  was  at 
variance  with  Madame  Fashion  re  the  Amphora  Silhouette? 
The  slender  shape  was  not  yet  spoilt,  but  long  before  the 
autumn  came,  no  art  would  mask  the  wealthy  curves  of  its 
maternity. 


CHAPTER   II 


DAME    NATURE    INTERVENES 


"I  can't  bear  it! — I  won't  bear  it!"  Margot  reiterated. 
With  her  tiimbled  hair,  swollen  eyes,  pink  uptilted  nose,  and 
the  little  mouth  and  chin  that  quivered  with  each  sobbing 
breath  intaken,  she  looked  absurdly  babyish  for  her  twenty 
years,  as  she  vowed  that  wild  horses  shouldn't  drag  her  to 
Longchamps,  and  railed  against  the  injustice  of  Fate. 

"  None  of  my  married  friends  have  had  such  rotten  luck  I " 
she  asserted.  She  stamped  upon  the  velvety  carpet  and 
flashed  at  Franky  a  glance  of  imperious  appeal.  "Not  Tota 
Stannus,  or  Cynthia  Charterhouse,  or  Joan  Delabrand,  or 
anybody!  Then,  why  me?  That's  what  I  want  to  know? 
After  all  the  mascots  I've  worn  and  carried  about  with 
me.  .  .  .  Gojo  and  JoUikins  and  the  jade  tree-frog,  and 
the  rest!  .  .  .  Every  single  one  given  me  by  a  different 
woman  who'd  been  married  for  years  and  never  had  a  baby! 
This  very  day  I'll  smash  the  whole  lot!" 

"By  the  Great  Brass  Hat!   ..." 

Franky  exploded  before  he  could  stop  himself,  and 
laughed  until  the  tears  coursed  down.  So  "Gojo,"  the 
black  velvet  kitten,  and  "  Jollikins, "  the  fat,  leering,  naked 
thing  that  sat  and  squinted  over  its  pot-belly  at  its  own 
huge,  shapeless  feet,  and  all  the  array  of  gadgets  and  net- 
sukis  crowding  Margot's  toilette-table  and  secretaire,  down 
to  "Pat-Pat,"  the  bog-oak  pig,  and  "Ti-Ti,"  the  jade  tree- 
frog,  were  so  many  insurances  against  the  Menace  of  Ma- 
ternity. By  Jove!  women  were  regular  children.  .  .  . 
And  Margot  .  .  .  Nothing  btit  a  baby,  this  poor  little 
Margot — going,  in  spite  of  Jollikins  and  Gojo,  to  have  a 

baby  of  her  own. 

6 


Dame  Nature  Intervenes  7 

"What    is    one    to    believe?      Whom    is    one    to    trust 


in? 


" '  Trust  in. '  .  .  .  My  best  child,  you  don't  mean  that 
you  believed  those  women  when  they  told  you  that  such 
twopenny  gadgets  could  work  charms  of — that  or  any  other 
kind?" 

"Indeed,  indeed  they  do!  Tota  Stannus  was  perfectly 
serious  when  she  came  to  my  boudoir  one  night  at  the  Club, 
about  a  week  before  our — the  wedding ....  She  said — I 
can  hear  her  now;  '  Well,  old  child,  you're  to  he  married  on 
Wednesday,  and  of  course  you  know  the  ropes  well  enough  not 
to  want  any  tips  from  me.    .    .    .     Still ' ' ' 

"That  wasn't  overwhelmingly  flattering,"  Franky  com- 
mented, "from  a  married  woman  twice  yoiir  age.  What 
else  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  I  must  be  aware,"  went  on  Margot,  "that  a 
woman  who  wanted  to  keep  her  friends  and  her  figure, 
simply  couldn't  afford  to  have  kids." 

"And  you " 

Franky  no  longer  battled  with  the  grin  that  would  have 
infuriated  Margot.     Something  had  wiped  it  from  his  face. 

"I  said  she  was  frightfully  kind,  but  that  I  was  quite 
well-posted — everything  was  O.K.,  and  she  needn't  alarm 
herself.  .  .  .  And  she  said, 'Oh!  if  you've  arranged  things 
with  Franky,  jolly  sensible  of  him!  Too  often  a  man  who 
is  open  and  liberal-minded  before  marriage  develops  geronto- 
craa'e  afterwards,  don't  you  know?  .  .  .'  And  I  told  her 
that  you  were  the  very  reverse  of  narrow-minded^and  she 
kissed  me  and  wished  me  happiness,  and  went  away.  And 
the  maid  knocked  later  on  to  say  Mrs.  Stannus  sent  her 
apologies  for  having  forgotten  to  leave  her  little  gift.  And 
the  little  gift  was,  Jollikins.  And  my  special  pals  joined 
in  to  stand  me  a  farewell  dinner,  and  they  drowned  my 
enamel  Club  badge  in  a  bowl  of  Maraschino  punch,  and 
fished  it  up  and  gave  mc  this  diamond  and  enamel  one, 
mounted   as   a   tie-brooch,    instead.     And  every  married 


8  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

woman  brought  me  a  mascot.  ...  I  had  Gojo  from 
Joan  Delabrand,  and  Ti-Ti  from  Cynthia  Charterhouse,  and 
the  jade  tree-frog  from  Patrine  Saxham,  and  the  carved 
African  bean  from  Rhona  Helvellyn,  and " 

Franky  objected: 

"Neither  Patrine  Saxham  nor  Rhona  Helvellyn  happen 
to  be  married  women!" 

"Perhaps  not;  but  Patrine  is  an  Advanced  Thinker,  and 
Rhona  Helvellyn  is  a  Militant  Stiffragist. " 

Franky  commented: 

"As  for  Suffragists,  that  Club  of  yours  is  stiff  with  'em. 
Gassing  about  their  Cause.  ...  I  loathe  the  noisy 
crowd!" 

"Then  you  loathe  me!  I  share  their  convictions!" 
Margot  proclaimed.  "  I  hold  the  faith  that  Woman's  Day 
will  dawn  with  the  passing  of  the  Bill  that  gives  us  the 
Vote.    ..." 

"  My  best  child,  you  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  the 
Vote  if  you  had  it. " 

Margot  retorted : 

"  I  cannot  expect  my  husband  to  treat  me  as  a  reasonable 
being  while  the  State  classes  his  wife  with  infants  and 
imbeciles." 

It  will  be  seen  that  a  very  pretty  squabble  was  on  the 
point  of  developing.  Fortunately,  at  this  juncture  a  valet 
of  the  chambers  knocked  at  the  door  to  say  that  a  waiter 
from  the  restaurant  begged  to  know  whether  Milord  and 
Miladi  would  take  lunch  d  la  carte,  or  prefer  something 
special  in  their  own  apartments? 

"Tell  him  no!"  wailed  Miladi,  to  the  unconcealed  con- 
sternation of  Milord,  who  had  a  healthy  appetite. 

"  Must  keep  up  your  pecker — never  say  die!"  Franky, 
stimulated  by  the  pangs  of  hunger,  developed  an  unsus- 
pected talent  for  diplomacy.  "Look  here!  We  must  talk 
over  things  quietly  and  calmly.  I'll  order  a  taxi,  and  we'll 
chuff  to  that  jolly  little  restaurant  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne — 


Dame  Nature  Intervenes  9 

where  you  can  grub  in  the  open  air  under  e  rose-pergola — 
and  order  something  special  and  odd " 

Since  Eve's  day,  this  lure  has  never  failed  to  catch  a 
woman.  Margot  began  to  dry  her  eyes.  Then  she  asked 
Franky  to  ring. 

"Three  times,  please.  .  .  .  That's  for  Pauline;  I  want 
another  handkerchief." 

"Have  two  or  three  while  you'ie  about  it,"  advised 
Franky,  obeying,  returning,  and  perching  on  the  arm  of  the 
settee.  "And  bathe  your  eyes  a  bit,  have  a  swab-over  of 
the  pinky  cream-stufi,  and  a  dab  of  powder. "  He  brushed 
some  pale  mealy  traces  from  his  right-arm  sleeve  and  coat- 
lapel,  ending,  "And  put  on  your  swankiest  hat  and  come 
along  to  Nadier's." 

' '  Could  we  get  anything  to  eat  at  Nadier's  that  we  couldn't 
get  here — or  in  London,  at  the  Tarlton  or  the  Rocroy?  ..." 

"Stacks  of  things !  For  instance — Canard  d  la  presse.  .  .  . 
They  squeeze  the  juice  out  of  the  duck,  ^-ou  twig,  with  a  sil- 
ver kind  of  squozzer,  and  cook  it  on  a  chafing-dish  under 
your  nose.  Look  here!  ..."  Franky,  now  desperate, 
produced  his  watch.  "All  the  cushiest  little  tables  will  be 
taken  if  you  don't  look  sharp. " 

"Not  on  the  day  of  the  Grand  Prix!" 

Franky  retorted,  spurred  to  maddest  invention  by  the 
pangs  of  hunger : 

"My  best  child,  there  are  about  a  hundred  thousand 
wealthy  Americans  in  Paris  who  don't  care  a  red  cent  about 
racing,  while  with  most  of  'em — to  eat  canard  a  la  presse 
at  Nadier's  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  in  the  June  season — is 
a — kind  of  religious  rite!" 

So  Margot  disappeared  to  dab  her  eyes  and  apply  the  pre- 
scribed touches  of  perfumed  cream  and  powder,  and  duly 
reappeared,  crowned  with  the  most  marvellous  hat  that  ever 
promenaded  the  ateliers  of  the  Maison  Blin  on  the  head  of  a 
milliner's  mannequin. 

You  are  to  imagine  the  tiny  thing  and  her  Franky  seated 


10  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

— not  in  one  of  the  smart  automobiles  that  wait  for  hire 
outside  Spitz's,  but  in  a  Httle  red  taxi,  borne  along  with  the 
broad  double  stream  of  traffic  of  every  description  that 
ceaselessly  roared  east  and  west  under  the  now  withering 
red-and-white  blossoms  of  the  chestnut-trees  of  the  Avenue 
of  the  Champs  Elysees,  inhaling  the  stimulating  breezes — 
flavoured  with  hot  dust  and  petrol,  Seine  stink,  sewer-gas, 
coffee,  patchouli,  fruit.  Regie  tobacco  and  roses — of  Paris 
in  the  end  of  June. 

All  the  world  and  his  wife  might  be  at  Longchamps, 
but  here  were  people  enough  and  to  spare.  Luxurious 
people  in  costly  automobiles  or  carriages  drawn  by  shiny 
high-steppers.  People  in  little  public  taxis,  men  and  women 
on  motor-bicycles  and  the  human-power  kind.  People  of 
all  stamps  and  classes,  clustered  like  bees  outside  the  big, 
smelly,  top-heavy  auto-buses,  soon  to  vanish  from  the  Paris 
avenues  and  boulevards,  with  the  red  and  yellow  and  green- 
flagged  taxis,  to  play  their  part  in  the  transport  and  nourish- 
ment of  the  Army  of  France.  People  of  all  ranks  and  classes 
on  foot,  though  as  of  old  the  midinette  with  her  big  cardboard 
bandbax,  the  military  cadet,  or  the  student  of  Art  or  Medi- 
cine, the  seminarist  and  the  shaggy-haired  and  bearded  man 
with  the  deadly  complexion,  the  slouch  hat,  the  aged  paletot 
and  the  soiled  and  ragged  crimson  necktie  that  distinguish 
the  milder  breed  of  Anarchist,  made  up  the  crowd  upon  the 
sidewalks,  liberally  peppered  with  the  sight-seeing  stranger 
of  British,  American,  or  Teuton  nationality — the  brilliantly- 
complexioned,  gaily-plumaged,  loudly-perfvmied  lady  of  the 
pavements;  the  gendarme  and  the  National  Guard,  and — 
with  Marie  or  Jeannette  proudly  hanging  on  his  elbow — 
Rosalie  in  her  black-leather  scabbard  dangling  by  his  side, 
his  crimson  kepi  tilted  rakishly — the  blue-coated,  red- 
trousered  French  infantryman,  the  poilu  whom  we  have 
learned  to  love. 

The  Bois  was  not  seething  with  fashionable  life  as  it  would 


Dame  Nature  Intervenes  ii 

be  towards  the  sunset  hour.  The  dandy  Clubmen,  the 
smart  ladies,  had  gone  to  Longchamps  with  the  four-in- 
hands.  Polo  was  going  on  near  the  Pont  de  Suresnes,  the 
band  of  a  regiment  of  Cuirassiers  was  playing  in  the  Jardin 
d'Acclimatation,  and  Hungarian  zithers  and  violins  dis- 
coursed sweet  music  on  a  little  gilded  platform  at  the  axial 
point  of  Nadier's  open-air  restaurant — which  is  shaped  like 
a  half-wheel,  with  pergolas  of  shower-roses  and  Crimson 
Ramblers  radiating  from  the  gilded  band-stand  to  the  outer 
circle  of  little  white  tables  at  which  one  can  lunch  or  dine  in 
fine  weather  under  a  light  screen  of  leaves  and  blossoms, 
beneath  which  the  green  canvas  awnings  can  be  drawn  when 
it  comes  on  to  rain. 

The  tables  were  crowded  with  French  people  taking  late 
dejeuner,  and  English,  Germans,  and  German-Americans 
having  lunch.  The  gravelled  courtyard  before  the  terrace 
was  packed  with  showy  automobiles. 

If  canard  a  la  presse  did  not  grace  the  meal  supplied  to 
Franky  and  Margot  on  Nadier's  terrace,  the  poiage  prin- 
tani^re  and  ecrevisses  and  a  blanquette  d'agneau  were  ex- 
quisitely cooked  and  served.  Asparagus  and  a  salad  of 
endive  followed,  and  by  the  time  they  had  emptied  a  bottle 
of  Chateau  Yquem  and  the  omelette  soufflee  had  given  place 
to  Peches  Melba,  Margot  had  smiled  several  times  and 
laughed  once. 

She  was  so  dainty  and  sweet,  so  brilliant  a  little  human 
humming-bird,  that  the  laughing,  chattering,  feasting  crowd 
of  smartly  or  extravagantly  dressed  people  gathered  about 
the  other  trellis-screened  tables  under  Nadier's  rose-pergola 
sent  many  a  curious  or  admiring  glance  her  way.  And 
Franky  was  very  proud  of  his  young  wife,  and  theirs  had 
been  undeniably  a  love-match ;  yet  in  spite  of  the  good  dishes 
and  the  excellent  Chateau  Yquem,  little  shivers  of  chilly 
premonition  rippled  over  him  from  time  to  time.  He  had 
got  to  speak  out — definitely  decline,  in  the  interests  of 
Posterity,  to  permit  interference  on  the  part  of  Margot's 


12  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Club  circle  in  his  private  domestic  affairs ....  How  to 
do  it  effectively  yet  inoffensively  was  a  problem  that 
strained  his  brain-capacity.  Yet — again  in  the  interests  of 
Posterity — Franky  had  never  previously  interested  himself 
in  Posterity — the  thing  had  to  be  done.  He  refused  Roque- 
fort, buttered  a  tiny  biscuit  absently,  put  it  down  undecid- 
edly, and  as  the  waiter  whisked  his  plate  away — conjured 
crystal  bowls  of  tepid  rose-water  and  other  essentials  from 
space,  and  vanished  in  search  of  dessert — he  spoke,  as- 
suming for  the  first  time  in  his  five  months'  experience  of 
connubial  life  the  toga  of  marital  authority. 

"I  think,  do  you  know,  Kitt-ums" — Kittums  was  Mar- 
got's  pet  name — "that  it  will  be  best  to  face  the  music ! " 

"Connu!"  Margot  shrugged  a  little,  widely  opening  her 
splendid  brown  eyes,  "But  what  music?" 

"The" — Franky  took  the  plunge — "the  cradle-music,  if 
you  will  have  it ! " 

Margot' s  gasp  of  dismay,  and  the  indignant  fire  of  a  stare 
that  was  quenched  in  brine,  awakened  Franky  to  the  fact 
•of  his  having  failed  in  tactics.  The  return  of  the  waiter  with 
a  pyramid  of  superb  strawberries  and  a  musk-melon  on 
cracked  ice  alone  stemmed  the  outburst  of  the  pent-up  flood 
of  reproach.  Entrenched  behind  the  melon,  Franky  waited. 
The  waiter  again  effaced  himself,  and  Margot  said  from 
behind  another  handkerchief: 

' '  Oh,  how  could  you !  .  .  .  I  never  dreamed  that  I  should 
live  to  hear  you  speak  to  me  in  that  way." 

Over  the  melon,  whose  rough  green  quartered  rind  had 
delicate  white  raised  traceries  all  over  it,  suggesting  outline 
maps  of  countries  in  Fairyland,  Franky  curiously  regarded 
his  wife.     He  said : 

"Wh}''  are  you  and  all  your  friends  so  funky  of — what's 
only  a  natural  phe — what  do  you  call  it?  .  .  .  What  do 
men  and  women  marry  for,  if  it  isn't  to  have — children?  .  .  . 
Perhaps  you'll  answer  me?" 

"What  do  people  marry  for?"     Margot  regarded  him 


Dame  Nature' Intervenes  13 

indignantly  over  the  neglected  pyramid  of  luscious,  tempt- 
ing strawberries,  "To — to  be  happy  together — to  have  a 
clinking  time!"  Her  voice  shook.  "And  this  is  to  be  a 
gorgeous  season.  Balls — balls!  right  on  from  now  to  the 
end  of  July — then  from  the  autumn  all  through  winter. 
Period  Costume  Balls,  reviving  the  modes,  music,  and  man- 
ners of  Ancient  Civilisations — Carthagenian,  Assyrian, 
Babylonian,  Gothic — got  up  and  arranged  by  the  Com- 
mittees of  the  Cercle  Moderne,  here  in  Paris,  and  in  London 
by  the  New  Style  Club.  .  .  .  Tony  Guisseguignol  and 
Paul  Peigault  and  their  set  are  busy  designing  the  dresses 
and  decorations — nothing  like  them  will  ever  have  been 
seen!  And — Peigault  says — Tango  and  the  IMaxixe  are  to 
be  chucked  to  the  little  cabbages.  A  new  dance  is  coming 
from  Sao  Paulo  that  will  simply  wipe  them  out.  .  .  .  And 
now — just  when  I  was  looking  forward — when  everything 
was  to  have  been  so  splendid " 

The  shaking  voice  choked  upon  a  note  of  anguish. 
Franky  had  picked  up  the  melon,  quite  unconsciously, 
and  was  balancing  it.  At  this  juncture  he  gripped  the 
green  globe  with  both  hands,  and  said,  summoning  all  his 
courage  to  meet  the  agonised  appeal  of  Margot's  tear- 
drenched  eyes: 

"Look  here.  This  is — strict  Bridge.  .  .  .  Do  you 
loathe  'em — the  kiddies — so  horribly  that  the  idea  of  having 
any  is  hateful  to  you?  Or  is  it — not  only  the — the  veto  it 
puts  on  larking  and  kickabout  and — the  temporary  dis- 
figurement— you're  afraid  of — but  the — the — the  inevit- 
able pain? "  He  glanced  round  cautiously  and  looked  back 
again  at  his  wife,  saying  in  a  low  voice:  "Nobody's  listening. 
.  .  .  Tell  me  frankly.  .  .  .  "  He  waited  an  instant, 
and  then  said  in  an  urgent  whisper.  "Answer  me!  .  .  . 
For  God's  sake,  tell  the  frozen  truth,  Margot!" 


CHAPTER   III 

FAIR   Rosamond's  choice 

The  terrace  under  Nadier's  roses — dotted  with  little  tables 
covered  with  napery,  silver,  crystal,  and  china,  surrounded 
with  laughing,  chattering  f  easters — the  terrace  was  no  longer 
a  scene  out  of  a  comedy  of  the  lighter  side  of  Parisian  life. 
.  .  .  Tragedy,  pale  and  awe-inspiring  in  her  ink-black 
mantle  and  purple  chiton,  had  stepped  across  the  gravel  in 
her  gold-buckled  leather  buskins,  to  offer  to  the  girlish  bride 
— a  piece  of  human  porcelain,  prinked  in  the  height  of  the 
fashion,  and  lovely — with  her  wild-rose  cheeks  and  little 
uptilted  nose,  her  floss-silk  hair  and  wide,  dark,  lustrous 
deer-eyes — Fair  Rosamond's  choice,  the  dagger  or  the 
bowl.    .    .    . 

"Yes — yes.  .  ,  .  It  is  the  ugliness  of  the  thing!  ..." 
The  little  mouth  was  pulled  awry  as  though  it  had  sipped 
of  verjuice.  The  tiny  hands  knotted  themselves  con- 
vulsively, and  the  colour  fled  in  terror  from  her  face.  "The 
grotesque  ugliness.  .  .  .  And  the" — the  last  two  words 
came  as  though  a  pang  had  wrung  them  from  the  pale  lips — 
"  the  pain — the  awful  pain !  And  besides — ^my  mother  died 
when  I  was  bom ! "  Margot's  voice  was  a  fluttering,  appeal- 
ing whisper;  her  great  eyes  were  dilated  and  wild  with  terror. 
"Perhaps  that  is  why  I  am  so  deadly  afraid" — she  caught 
her  breath — "but  there  are  heaps,  heaps,  heaps  of  married 
women  who  fear — that — equally!  And  they  arrange  to 
escape  it — I  don't  know  how!  .  .  .  For  I  knew — nothing 
— when  I  married  you!  .  .  ."  She  lifted  her  great 
eyes  to  Franky's,  and  he  realised  that  it  had  been  so, 
actually.  "I've  been  ashamed  ever  to  confess  that  I 
was — ignorant   about   these  things!   .    .    .     I've  talked  a 

14 


Fair  Rosamond's  Choice  15 

language — amongst  other  women — that  I  didn't  under- 
stand! ..." 

There  are  moments  when  even  the  shallow-brained  be- 
come clairvoyant.  Franky's  love  for  her  made  him  see 
clear.  He  looked  back  down  the  vista  of  Margot's  twenty 
years  of  existence,  and  saw  her  the  motherless  daughter  of  a 
self-absorbed,  cultivated.  Art-loving  valetudinarian,  who 
habitually  spent  the  chillier  part  of  each  year  in  ranging 
from  French  to  Italian  health-resorts,  occupying  the  spring 
with  Art  in  Paris — returning  to  London  for  June  and  July, 
generally  spending  August  and  September  in  Devonshire — 
to  take  flight  Southwards  before  the  migrating  swallows,  at 
the  first  chill  breath  of  October  frosts. 

Margot  had  been  educated  at  home,  down  in  Devonshire, 
by  a  series  of  certificated  female  tutors.  The  spinster  aunt, 
the  younger  sister  of  her  father,  extended  to  her  niece  for  a 
liberal  remuneration  a  nominal  protection  and  an  indifTerent 
care.  .  .  .  And  Mr.  Mountjohn  had  died  when  the  girl 
was  sixteen,  leaving  her  unconditionally  heiress  to  his  con- 
siderable fortune,  and  the  aunt  had  let  Margot  have  her 
head  in  every  imaginable  way.  She  had  allowed  her  to  take 
up  her  residence  at  the  "Ladies'  Social"  Club  three  years 
subsequently,  on  the  sole  condition  that  a  responsible 
chaperon  accompanied  Margot  to  Society  functions. 
Hence,  Mrs.  Ponsonby  Rewes,  the  irreproachable  widow  of 
a  late  King's  Messenger,  was  evoked  from  Kensington 
Tower  Mansions  upon  these  occasions — by  telephone — to 
vanish  when  no  longer  wanted,  in  the  discreetest  and  most 
obliging  way. 

"Poor  Httlc  Margot!  ....  Poor  little  woman !... " 
Franky  could  see  how  it  all  had  happened  by  the  wild  light 
of  the  great  deer-eyes,  so  like  those  in  the  portrait  of  the 
girl's  dead  mother — half  Irish,  half  Greek  by  birth. 

While  Franky  reflected,  the  tables  had  been  emptying. 
People  were  hurrying  away  to  hear  the  band  of  the  Jardin 
d'Acclimatation  or  to  fulfil  other  engagements  of  a  sea- 


i6  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

sonable  kind.  Some  remained  to  smoke  and-gossip  over 
liqueurs  and  coffee.  The  light  blue  wreaths  of  cigar  and 
cigarette  smoke  curled  up  towards  the  awning  overhead. 
Franky  mechanically  produced  his  own  case  and  lighted  up. 
And  Margot,  stretching  a  slender  arm  across  the  table,  was 
saying : 

"Give  me  one! — I've  forgotten  mine!   ..." 

"Oughtyou?  .  .  .  Isitwise?  ..."  Franky  wason 
the  point  of  asking,  but  his  good  Angel  must  have  clapped  a 
hand  before  his  mouth.  He  silently  gave  Margot  a  thick, 
masculine  Sobranie  and  supplied  a  light;  and  as  their 
young  faces  neared  and  the  red  spark  glowed,  and  the  first 
smoke-wreath  rose  between  the  approximating  tubes  of 
delicate  tobacco-filled  paper,  his  wife  whispered  as  their  eyes 
met: 

' '  You're  hurt !  But  now  you  know — you're  sorry  for  me, 
aren't  you?"  It  was  a  dragging,  plaintive  undertone,  not 
at  all  like  Margot's  voice. 

"Frightfully!  All  the  more  because" — Franky  drew  so 
hard  at  his  cigarette  that  it  burned  one-sidedly — "I  can't 
help  being  thundering — glad!" 

"I— see!   ..." 

She  breathed  out  the  words  with  a  thin  stream  of  fra- 
grant Turkish  vapour  crawling  over  her  scarlet  under-lip, 
it  seemed  to  Franky,  like  a  pale  blue  worm.  And  he  bit 
through  his  Sobranie  and  threw  it  on  his  dessert-plate,  say- 
ing desperately : 

"Not  yet.  Will  you  listen  quietly  to  what  I've  got  to 
say?" 

She  nodded.  Franky  laimched  himself  upon  the  tide  of 
revelation.  Nearly  everybody  who  had  been  eating  when 
he  had  come  into  Nadier's  with  Margot  had  got  up  and  gone 
away.  And  the  Cuirassiers  band  was  playing  the  love- 
music  from  Samson  et  Dalila  on  the  terrace  of  the  Jardin 
d'Acclimatation,  as  melodiously  as  only  a  French  military 
band  can  play. 


Fair  Rosamond's  Choice  17 

"  It's  got  to  do  with  the  Peerage.  Only  a  Second  Afghan 
"War-Earldom  dating  from  1879 — tacked  on  to  the  Vis- 
county they  gave  my  great-grandfather  after  Badajos — but 
worth  having  in  its  way,  or  the  Dad  wouldn't  have  accepted 
it.  And,  naturally  enough — I  want  a  boy  to  take  the  Vis- 
county when  I  succeed  my  father,  and  have  the  Earldom 
when  I've  absquatulated,  just  as  the  kiddy'll  want  one  when 
his  own  time  comes. " 

Margot  was  burning  a  strawberry-leaf  on  her  plate  with 
her  cigarette-end.  She  asked,  impressing  another  little 
yellow  scorched  circle  on  the  surface  of  rough  green : 

"Would  it  matter  so  very  much  if  there  wasn't  any  boy  ? " 

Franky  jumped  and  turned  red  to  the  white,  unsunned 
circle  left  by  the  field-cap  on  the  summit  of  his  high  forehead. 

"It  would  matter — lots!  For  my  Uncle  Sherbrand,  a 
younger  brother  of  my  father's,  would  come  in  for  the 
Viscounty  when  I  succeeded  the  dear  old  Dad.  And  my 
Uncle  Sherbrand  is  a  blackguard!  Got  cashiered  in  1900, 
when  he  was  an  Artillery  officer  in  a  gun-testing  billet  at 
Wanwich.  Kicked  out  of  the  Army — in  War-time,  mind 
you! — for  not  backing  up  his  CO.  And  the  brute  has  got 
a  son,  too,  an  apprentice  in  an  engine-shop,  if  he  isn't  ac- 
tually a  chaufleur.  Probably  the  young  fellow's  respectable, 
and  of  course  it  ain't  the  pup's  fault  he's  got  such  a  sire.  But 
my  Dad  would  turn  in  his  grave  at  the  idea  of  being  suc- 
ceeded by  the  brother  who  disgraced  him — and  as  for  his 
grandfather — the  jolly  old  cock  'ud  bally  well  get  up  and 
dance,  I  should  say.  .  .  .  So,  3'ou  see,  I  can't — sym- 
pathise with  you  as  you  want  me  to  do  in  this,  darling !  I 
want  you  to  buck  up  and  be  cheerful,  and  face  the  music  like 
a  brick.    ...     As  for  what  you've  told  me — about  3' our 

mother "     In  spite  of  himself,  Franky  gulped,  and  little 

shiny  beads  of  sweat  stood  upon  his  checks  and  temples. 
"That  sort  of  thing  doesn't  run  in  families,  like  rhcimiatism" 
— he  was  getting  idiotic — "or  Roman  noses!  Be  plucky — 
and  everything  will  turn  out  all  right.     Can't  possibly  go 


i8  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

wrong  if  we  call  in  Saxham  .  .  .  Saxham  of  ooo,  Harley 
Street — man  my  sister  Trix  simply  swears  by.  Brought 
her  boy  Ronald  into  the  world  thirteen  years  ago,  and 
successfully  operated  on  him  for  appendicitis  only  the  other 
day!   ..." 

Margot  looked  at  Franky  attentively  and  bent  her  head 
slightly.  Had  she  understood?  She  must  have.  .  .  . 
Had  she  tacitly  agreed?     Of  course.    .    .    . 


CHAPTER   IV 

RAYMOND   OF   THE    S.    AE.    F. 

The  Masculine  Will  had  conquered.  You  had  only  to  be 
firm  with  women — bless  their  hearts!  and  they  caved 
directly.  .  .  .  Couldn't  hold  out.  ,  .  ,  Not  built  that 
way.  .  .  .  Franky's  sternly-clamped  upper-lip  relaxed. 
He  beamed  as  he  proposed  a  noonday  stroll  in  the  Bois.  In 
the  direction  of  the  bigger  Lake,  by  one  of  the  narrower 
avenues,  or  if  Margot  preferred  a  look-in  at  the  Polo  Club, 
another  avenue,  intersecting  the  Allee  de  Longchamps  and 
skirting  the  enclosure  of  the  Gim  Club,  would  take  them 
there  in  a  jiffy,  via  Bagatelle. 

Margot  assented  to  the  latter  proposition,  and,  with  a 
little  flutter  of  the  lips  Franky  accepted  as  a  smile,  reached 
for  her  egret  stole,  a  fihny  feathery  thing  she  had  removed  on 
entering  Nadicr's,  and  drew  on  her  long  mousquetaire  gloves 
and  pulled  down  her  veil  of  sunset  chiffon,  half  shaded  red, 
merging  into  jonquil  yellow  matching  the  shade  of  her  mar- 
vellous gown.  And  Franky  paid  the  bill  in  plump  English 
sovereigns  (invariably  exchanged  as  good  for  louis  of  twenty 
francs  by  the  suave  and  smiling  waiter)  and  tipped  the  said 
waiter  extravagantly,  and  took  his  hat  from  the  second 
waiter  (who  invariably  starts  up  by  the  side  of  the  first  when 
you  are  going)  and  tipped  him,  and  got  his  stick  from  the 
third  waiter  (who  came  forward  with  this,  and  the  en  tout  cas 
of  Madame — a  lovely  thing  in  the  latest  dome-shape,  of 
black  net  over  jonquil  colour,  with  a  flounce,  and  an  ivory 
stick,  upon  the  top  of  which  sat  a  green  monkey  in  olivines, 
eating  a  ruby  fruit),  and  lighted  another  cigarette,  and  re- 
turned the  elaborate  bow  of  the  manager  with  a  nod  of  the 
cheerful  patronising  order  as  he  followed  IMargot  through 

19 


20  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  Rambler-wreathed  archway  leading  by  a  flight  of  shal- 
low steps  from  Nadier's  terrace  to  the  wide  carriage-sweep 
that  links  the  broad  Allee  de  Longchamps  with  the  narrower 
Route  de  Madrid.  And  the  towering  plume  of  her  astonish- 
ing hat  brought  down  a  shower  of  red  rose-petals  as  she 
passed  out  before  him — and  Franky,  with  some  of  these  on 
his  top-hat-brim  and  others  nestling  in  the  front  of  his  waist- 
coat, was  irresistibly  reminded  of  their  wedding-day. 

Unconsciously,  Franky  and  Margot  quitted  the  broader, 
more  frequented  avenue,  crowded  with  people  in  carriages, 
people  in  automobiles,  people  on  motor-bicycles  and 
bicyclettes,  and  followed  narrower  pathways,  stretching 
between  green  lawns  adorned  with  shrubberies  and  clumps 
of  stately  forest  trees,  and  chiefly  patronised  by  sweetheart- 
ing  couples,  nursemaids  in  charge  of  children,  children  in 
domineering  but  affectionate  charge  of  white-haired  ladies, 
while  venerable  gentlemen  dozed  on  rustic  benches  over  the 
columns  of  Figaro  or  Paris  Midi. 

When  even  these  figures  became  rare,  it  was  borne  in 
upon  Franky  that  he  and  Margot  were  not  upon  a  path  that 
led  to  the  Grounds  of  the  Polo  Club.  Reluctantly,  he  ad- 
mitted himself  lost. 

"Does  it  matter?  ..."  Margot's  voice  was  weary. 
"  If  you're  absolutely  set  on  it,  we  could  ask  one  of  those  men 
in  cocked  hats  and  waxed  moustaches  and  red-and-yellow 
shoulder-cords  to  give  us  the  straight  tip.  But  I  don't  feel 
the  least  bit  keen  about  the  Polo  Club  any  more  than  the 
Lakes.  These  alleys  are  quiet,  and  the  grass  is  nice  and 
green.     I  vote  we  go  on. " 

"Madame  cannot  pass  this  way.  It  is  not  open  for 
strangers." 

A  Republican  Guard,  a  good-looking  sous-officier,  had 
spoken,  comprehending  the  tone  rather  than  the  English 
words. 

"Why  not?"  Margot's  eyes  suddenly  brightened.  She 
eagerly  sniffed  the  air  of  the  forbidden  avenue.     The  cor- 


Raymond  of  the  S.  Ae.  F.  21 

poral,  indicating  with  his  white-gloved  hand  other  Repub- 
lican Guards  posted  at  equal  distances  down  the  prohibited 
alley,  and  at  its  intersection  with  another  some  two  hundred 
yards  distant,  brought  his  eyes  back  to  Margot  to  answer: 

"  Madame,  for  the  reason  that  certain  military  operations 
are  taking  place  here  to-day. " 

"But  my  husband  is  an  English  officer — "  Margot  was 
beginning,  when  Franky,  reddening  to  his  hat-brim,  ex- 
horted her  to  be  quiet,  and  the  Republican  Guard,  civilly 
saluting,  stepped  upon  the  grass  and  moved  away. 

"All  the  same,  you  are  an  English  officer,"  Margot  per- 
sisted, "and  what  use  is  the  Entente  if  that  doesn't  count? " 

"Best  child,  don't  be  a  giddy  goose !"  Franky  implored 
her.  "You  don't  suppose  the  Authorities  care  a  bad  to- 
mato for  an  English  Loot — what  they'd  cotton  to  would 
have  to  be  a  British  Brass  Hat  of  the  very  biggest  kind. 
Look  there! — more  to  your  left,  little  battums!"  He  indi- 
cated yet  other  Republican  cocked  hats  strung  at  equal 
distances  down  the  length  of  a  neighbouring  alley,  precisely 
outlining  the  farther  border  of  the  sandwich-shaped  half- 
acre  of  greensward  by  which  their  particular  avenue  ran. 
"And  there!"  His  professional  eye  had  noted  a  big,  grey- 
painted  military  motor-lorry,  numbered,  and  lettered 
"S.  Ae.  F."  Behind  the  driver's  seat  towered  the  slender 
T-shaped  steel  mast  of  a  Field  wireless,  whose  spidery 
aerials,  pegged  to  the  turf,  were  in  charge  of  men  in  kepis 
and  blue  overalls,  while  a  non-commissioned  officer,  wearing 
the  telephone  head-band  of  the  operator,  leaned  on  the 
elbow-rest  of  the  tripod  supporting  the  apparatus,  his  finger 
on  the  buzzer-key.  Near  him  his  clerk  squatted,  pencil  and 
pad  in  readiness,  while  at  a  respectful  distance  from  two 
oblong  patches  of  white  in  the  middle  of  the  green  plat  of 
turf,  several  active  upright  figures  in  dark  uniforms  stood 
conversing,  or  walking  to  and  fro. 

"  Officiers  Aviatcurs,  telegraphists  and  mechanics  of  the 
French  Sendee  AeronaiUiqiie" — you  are  listening  to  Franky 


22  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

— "tremendously  well-organised  compared  with  our  little 
footling  Flying  Corps,  tinkered  fourteen  months  ago  out  of 
the  old  Air  Battalion  of  the  R.  E.  These  chaps  are  En- 
gineers— goin'  by  the  dark  red  double  stripes  on  their  over- 
alls and  their  dark  blue  kepis.  Some  of  their  machines'll  be 
out  for  practice.  Despatch-droppin'  or  bombs.  Here's  a 
man  with  brass  on  his  hat,  coming  our  way.  .  .  .  Takes 
me  for  a  German  soger-orficer  I  shouldn't  wonder! — lots  of 
'em  get  their  clothes  cut  in  Bond  Street.  But  though  you 
can  hide  Allemand  legs  in  English  trousers" — Franky  was 
recovering  his  customary  cheeriness — "and  some  of  'em 
do  it  uncommon  cleverly — you  can't  deodorise  an  accent 
that  hails  from  Berlin." 

The  officer  approaching — a  youthful,  upright  figure  walk- 
ing quickly,  with  the  short,  springy  steps  of  a  man  much  in 
the  saddle — proved  to  be  grey-haired  and  grey-moustached. 
The  double-winged  badge  of  his  Service  was  embroidered  in 
gold  upon  the  right  sleeve  of  his  tunic,  and  upon  the  collar, 
a  single  wing  in  this  case,  ending  in  a  star.  He  carried  bin- 
oculars suspended  from  his  neck  by  a  rolled-leather  thong, 
and  a  revolver  in  a  black-leather  case  was  attached  to  the 
belt  about  his  middle.  There  was  thick  white  dust  upon 
the  legs  and  uppers  of  his  high  polished  black  boots,  which 
the  grass  had  scoured  from  the  toes  and  soles.  His  bright 
blue-grey  eyes  ran  over  Franky  as  the  slight  soldierly  salute 
was  exchanged.     He  said,  speaking  in  excellent  English : 

"  If  Monsieur,  the  English  officer,  will  obligingly  mention 
his  name,  rank,  and  regiment,  it  might  be  possible  to  allow 
him  to  continue  his  promenade  with  Madame,  the  invention 
we  are  testing  being  the  patent  of  his  countryman,  and  al- 
ready familiar  to  the  Authorities  at  the  British  War  Office.  " 

Thus  coerced,  Franky  produced  his  card,  Margot  dimpled 
into  smiles,  the  polite  officer  saluted  again,  introduced  him- 
self as  Raymond,  Capitaine-Commandant  pilot  of  the  — th 
escadrille,  wheeled  and  walked  away.  But  he  returned  to 
say,  this  time  directly  addressing  Margot: 


Raymond  of  the  S.  Ae.  F.  23 

"Should  Madame  la  Vicomtesse  desire  to  witness  the  test 
of  her  countryman's  —  apparatus,  there  can  be  no  objection 
to  her  doing  so.  But  that  Madame  should  keep  clear  of  the 
vicinity  of  the" — he  pointed  to  the  two  oblong  strips  of 
white  canvas  adorning  the  middle  of  the  expanse  of  green, 
— "the  signal,  intended  for  the  guidance  of  the  aviator, 
is  of  absolute  necessity,  Madame  must  understand!" 

"There  won't  be  any  .  .  .?"  Margot  was  beginning, 
nervously. 

*' Mais  non,  Madame.  Pas  d'explosion,"  the  ofhcer  as- 
sured her,  and  stiffened  to  attention  facing  eastwards,  and 
scanning  the  sky  with  eyes  that  blinked  in  the  dazzling  glare 
of  early  noon.  For  the  droning  whirr  of  a  plane  just  then 
reached  them,  drowning  the  sign  of  the  hot  south  breeze  that 
rustled  in  the  tops  of  the  acacias  and  oaks,  ilexes  and  poplars, 
that  rose  about  the  arena  of  open  ground.  .  /. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE    BIRD    OF   WAR 

"The  avion  comes  from  Drancy. "  The  speaker  looked  back 
at  Margot  as  he  focussed  his  binoculars.  "It  is  not  one  of 
our  Army  machines,  but  a  British  monoplane  built  by  your 
countryman  and  fitted  with  the  invention  whose,  usefulness 
we  are  here  to  test."  He  continued:  "Should  the  officier- 
pilote  in  charge  of  the — apparatus — and  who  for  the  time 
being  represents  an  enemy — succeed  in  poising" — he  hesi- 
tated a  bare  instant — "for  a  stipulated  number  of  moments 
over  the  target — those  two  lengths  of  white  canvas  approxi- 
mating on  the  grass  represent  the  target — he  scores  a 
bull's-eye." 

He  blinked  a  little,  and  before  Franky's  mental  vision  rose 
the  aggregation  of  Government  buildings  near  the  Carrefour 
des  Cascades,  marked  " Magazins  et  depots"  on  Baedeker's 
maps. 

"He  scores  a  bull's  eye, "  resumed  the  speaker.  "He  has 
already  paid  one  visit  of  the  requisite  duration  to  an  address 
near  the  Porte  d'Aubervilliers. "  Franky  had  a  mental 
vision  of  the  array  of  big,  bloated  gasometers  pertaining  to 
the  Strasbourg  Railway  Yards.  ' '  He  has  made  a  similar  call 
at  a  point  indicated  between  the  station  of  the  Batignolles 
and  the  station  of  the  Avenue  de  Clichy" — the  well-pre- 
served teeth  of  the  officer  showed  under  the  grey  mous- 
tache as  he  smiled,  and  Franky  had  another  vision  of  the 
huge  Gare  aux  Marchandises  tucked  in  the  angle  between 
the  Railway  of  the  Geinture  and  the  Western  Railway  lines, 
as  the  speaker  went  on  suavely  ' '  and  the  target  succeeding 
this  will  be  the  last.  It  is  situated  on  the  Champ  de  Man- 
ceuvres  at  Issy.     The  wireless-telegraph  operator  of  my 

34 


The  Bird  of  War  25 

escadrille  informs  me  that  two  bull's  eyes  have  already 
been  registered — which  for  your  countryman's  invention 
presages  well." 

Franky,  with  British  plumpness,  queried: 

"And  the  invention?  Some  new  bomb-dropping  de- 
vice— planned  to  get  rid  of  the  way  the  engine  always  puts 
on  'em?  If  the  English  inventor-fellow  has  done  thai,  his 
goods  are  worth  buying,  I  should  say!" 

Raymond,  Capitaine-Commandant,  answered  as  the  dron- 
ing song  from  the  sky  grew  louder : 

"Of  certainty,  Monsieur,  if  his  invention  prove  worth 
buying,  my  Government  will  undoubtedly  purchase  what 
has  already  been  unavailingly  offered  to  yours.  It  is  our 
custom  to  examine  and  test,  closely  and  exhaustively,  new 
things  that  are  offered.  But  what  would  you?  We  seek 
the  best  for  France. " 

"He  isn't  flying  his  aeroplane  himself,  is  he ?  Or  working 
his  own  invention,  whatever  it  may  be?" 

"But  no,  Madame!  One  of  our  Officiers-Aviateurs  is 
acting  as  pilot,  a  skilled  mechanic  of  our  Service  occupies 
the  observer's  place.  Despite  the  Entente  Cordiale — the 
happy  relations  prevailing  between  my  country  and  Eng- 
land— it  would  hardly  be  convenable  or  discreet  to  permit 
even  an  Englishman" — the  tone  of  graceful,  subtle  irony 
cannot  be  conveyed  by  pen  or  type — "even  an  Englishman 
to  fly  over  Paris,  or  any  other  fortified  city  of  France.  But 
see !  In  the  sky  to  the  north-east — above  that  silvery  pufl 
of  vapour — arrives  now  the  avion  built  and  christened  by 
your  countryman." 

M argot  asked,  narrowing  her  beautiful  eyes  as  she 
searched  out  the  darkish  speck  upon  the  hot  blue  back- 
ground: 

"The  plane,  you  mean.     "What  does  he  call  it?" 

Raymond  answered  without  removing  his  eyes  from  his 
binoculars: 

"  Madame,  he  calls  it  '  The  Bird  of  War. ' " 


26  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

The  tuff-tuff  of  a  motor-cycle  sounded  faintly  in  the 
distance,  as  the  resonant  vibrating  noise  of  the  aeroplane 
came  more  triumphantly  out  of  the  hot  blue  sky.  Save  for 
a  scintillating  white  reflection  to  the  north  that  might 
have  been  the  crystal  dome  of  the  great  big  Palm  House  in 
the  Jardin  d'Acclimatation,  and  that  unavoidable,  useful 
ugliness,  the  gilded  lantern  of  the  Tour  Eiffel,  thrusting  up 
into  the  middle  distance  over  the  delicately-rounded  masses 
of  new  foliage  upon  the  right-hand  looking  east,  the  glory 
and  shame  and  magnificence  and  squalor  of  the  Queen  City 
of  Cities  might  have  lain  a  hundred  leagues  away,  so  ringed- 
in  by  delicate  austere  brown  of  serried  tree-trunks,  rising 
above  rich  clumps  of  blossoming  lilac,  syringa,  yellow  azalea, 
and  pink,  mauve,  and  snowy  rhododendron,  was  the  spa- 
cious green  arena  wherein  Franky  and  Margot  were  destined 
to  play  their  part. 

Now,  followed  by  the  wide-winged  shadow  that  the  sun 
of  high  noon  threw  almost  directly  beneath  her,  darkening 
drifting  cloud,  and  open  city  spaces,  passing  over  breasting 
tree-tops  and  wide  stretches  of  municipal  greensward,  the 
Bird  of  War  drew  nearer  and  more  near ....  And  glaiic- 
ing  up  as  the  portentous  flying  shadow  suddenly  blotted  out 
the  sunlight,  Franky  realised  that  the  two-seater  monoplane 
was  hovering,  and  buzzing  as  she  hovered,  like  a  Brobding- 
nagian  combination  of  kite-hawk,  dragon-fly,  and  bumble- 
bee. 

He  pulled  out  a  pair  of  vest-pocket  field-glasses  and 
scanned  her  as  she  hung  there,  gleaming  in  the  sunlight,  at  a 
height  of  perhaps  five  hundred  feet  above  the  white  cloths 
on  the  grass.  He  could  make  out  the  Union  Jack  on  her 
underwings,  the  huge  black  raking  capitals  of  her  name 
BIRD  OF  WAR  painted  on  the  side  of  the  tapering  canvas- 
covered  fuselage,  the  diamond-shaped  tail  swaying  between 
the  pendant  flaps  of  the  huge  triangular  elevators,  clearly 
as  though  these  features  had  been  filmed  upon  the  screen. 
In  a  curious  misty  circle,  spinning  under  the  fuselage,  he 


The  Bird  of  War  21 

suspected  lay  the  secret  of  her  kite-hke  poise  and  hover,  and 
behind  his  immaculate  waistcoat  he  was  sensible  of  a  thrill. 

If  the  English  inventor  had  not  solved  the  baffling  Prob- 
lem of  Stability,  he  had  come  uncommonly  near  it,  by  the 
Great  Brass  Hat!  And  the  dud-heads  at  Whitehall  had 
shown  the  door  to  him  and  his  invention.  "Good  Christ- 
mas!— how  like  'em!"  reflected  Franky,  lowering  the  glasses 
to  chuckle,  and  looking  round  for  M argot. 

There  she  was,  some  twenty  yards  distant,  planted  right 
in  the  middle  of  the  avenue,  lost  to  the  wide  in  rapt  contem- 
plation of  the  hovering  aeroplane. 

"Kitts!"  he  called,  but  she  did  not  hear,  or  disdained  to 
pay  attention.  He  tried  to  call  again,  but  his  mouth  dried 
up  and  his  feet  seemed  rooted  to  the  ground.  For,  swinging 
round  the  turf -banked  corner  of  the  avenue  at  its  junction 
with  another,  charging  at  a  terrific  pace  down  upon  the  little 
brilliant  creature,  came  a  whity-brown  figure  on  a  motor- 
cycle, the  frantic  honking  of  its  horn  and  the  racket  of  its 
engine's  open  throttle  mingling  deafeningly  with  the  trac- 
tor's roar. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SHERBRAND 

The  frantic  honking  of  the  pneumatic  horn  was  lost  in  the 
crashing  collision  of  earth  and  metal.  Franky,  pallid  and 
damp  with  apprehension,  reassured  himself  by  a  rapid  glance 
that  Margot  was  safe  and  sound.  The  aeroplane  had 
ceased  buzzing  and  hovering,  headed  southwards,  and 
floated  on,  trailing  her  shadow,  leaving  the  traces  of  her 
passage  in  a  smear  of  brown  earth  indicating  a  vicious  slash 
made  by  the  right-side  foot-rest  of  a  motor-cycle  in  the 
greensward,  conserved  and  sacred  to  the  French  Republic — 
the  upset  machine  to  which  the  foot-rest  appertained,  and 
an  angry  young  man  in  dusty  overalls,  sitting  in  the  middle 
of  the  raked-up  avenue. 

"You've  had  a  spill!  ..."  Franky  heard  himself 
saying. 

"Yes.  ...  I  have  had  a  spill — thanks  to  that  young 
lady!" 

The  dusty  young  man's  tone  was  frankly  savage;  he 
regarded  the  brilliant  little  figure  in  the  distance  with  a  scowl 
of  resentment  as  he  gathered  himself  up  from  the  gravel, 
and  dabbed  at  a  jagged,  oozing  cut  on  his  prominent  chin 
with  a  handkerchief  of  Isabella  hue.  "The  brake-handle 
did  that,"  he  curtly  explained,  more  for  his  own  benefit  than 
apologetic  Franky's.  But  he  looked  full  in  the  flushed  and 
dewy  countenance  of  Margot's  lord  as  he  added: 

"If  I'd  killed  her,  a  French  jury  would  have  found  that 
she  deserved  it ! — running  like  a  corncrake  across  the  avenue 
when  I  was  scorching  up  at  top  speed !   .    .    ." 

"I  know,"  Franky  stammered.  "I — I  see  how  it  all 
happened.     You  had  to  steer  slap  into  the  bank — to  save 

28 


Sherbrand  29 

my — my  wife's  life.  How  can  I  apologise?  .  .  .  You  see, 
she  was  crazy  about  the  aeroplane.  .  .  .  She'd  been 
warned  to  keep  well  out  of  the  way — you  know  what  women 
are!   ..." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that!  ..."  The  dusty  young  man,  moving 
with  a  perceptible  limp,  went  to  the  prone  motor-cycle, 
stood  it  up  on  its  bent  stand  with  one  twist  of  his  big-boned 
wrist,  and  began  to  examine  into  its  injuries.  "Not  much 
wrong,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  straightened  his  back,  and 
in  the  act  of  throwing  a  leg  over  the  saddle,  felt  Franky's 
restraining  grip  upon  his  arm. 

"You  don't  go  until  my  wife  has  thanked  you! "  Franky's 
upper-lip  was  Rha  daman  thine.  "Margotl"  he  called,  in  a 
tone  of  authority  such  as  he  had  never  previously  heard 
from  his  own  mouth;  "Come  here  at  once,  please!  I  want 
to  speak  to  you!" 

The  fluttering  little  figure  waved  a  hand  to  him.  The 
gay  little  voice  called  back : 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Oh! — but  look  at  them !  ,  .  .  Can  they 
be  going?     Why,  I  believe  they  are!   .    .    .  " 

The  canvas  strips  had  been  rolled  up  by  a  mechanician  of 
the  Service  Aeronautique,  and  stowed  away  behind  the  big 
grey  telegraph-car,  in  the  recesses  of  which  the  telescopic 
steel  mast  and  aerials  of  the  wireless  had  been  snugly  tucked 
away.  The  mechanics  in  kepis  and  overalls  had  stowed 
themselves  away  inside  the  camion;  the  wireless  operator, 
d  kepi  having  replaced  his  headband,  was  acting  as  chauffeur. 
And,  occupying  the  front  seat  beside  a  junior  officer,  who 
piloted  a  second,  smaller  car,  Raymond,  Capitainc-Com- 
mandant  pilot  of  the  — th  escadrille  of  France's  Service 
Aeronautique  gave  the  signal  for  departure  with  an  upward 
wave  of  his  hand.  Then,  with  some  sharp,  staccato  trills  of 
a  whistle  and  the  double  honk  of  a  pneumatic  horn,  the 
car  of  the  commandant  turned  and  sped  down  the  avenue, 
followed  by  the  tractor- waggon ;  and  both  were  lost  to  view. 

"But — they're  gone!  .  .  .    And — and  the  aeroplane.  ..." 


30  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Margot  gasped  out  the  words  in  amazed  discomfiture,  send- 
ing her  eyes  after  a  dwindHng  shape  beating  down  the  sky  to 
the  southward,  and  straining  her  ears  to  catch  the  last  of  the 
tractor's  whirring  song. 

"Nearly  at  Issy,  I  should  calculate — travelling  at  eighty 
miles  an  hour.  Impossible  now  to  catch  up  with  her  in  time 
to  see  her  do  the  last  stunt.  Can  choose  my  own  pace  for 
going,  anyhow, "  said  the  motor-cyclist  ruefully.  ' '  Nothing 
left  to  do  but  take  the  Bird  over  and  fly  her  back  to  the 
Drancy  hangar." 

He  tried  to  laugh,  but  his  wrung  face  gave  the  lie  to  the 
plucky  pretence  of  indifference.  He  went  on,  still  doggedlv 
mopping  away  at  his  bleeding  chin : 

"I  was  lucky  in  getting  a  hearing  on  this  side  of  the 
Channel.  The  bigwigs  at  Whitehall  simply  referred  me  to 
the  Superintendent  of  the  Royal  Aircraft  Factory  at  Fray- 
borough,  and  as  I'd  tried  him  twice  already,  I  knew  what 
he'd  got  to  say.  The  Commander  of  the  Central  School  of 
Military  Aviation  was  a  brick — I'll  say  that  for  him.  He  sent 
a  French  flying  officer  to  look  me  up  at  Hendon,  who  got  me 
in  touch  with  the  Inventions  Bureau  of  their  Service  Aero- 
nautique.  .  .  .  Well!  the  big  test's  over  by  this  time.  I  shall 
know  my  fate  in  a  week  or  two — or  possibly  in  a  year?' ' 

"  Oh !     You  don't  mean ' ' 

The  horrified  cry  broke  from  Margot.     Franky  yelled : 

"By  the  Great  Brass  Hat!  .  .  .  You're  the  inventor! 
The  whole  thing  was  your  show ! " 

"Yes,  I'm  the  inventor,"  the  tanned  young  man  in  the 
dusty  overalls  answered  rather  contemptuously:  "  W^hat  did 
you  take  me  for?  .  .  .  A  French  medical  student  having 
a  joy-ride,  or  a  commis  voyageur?" 

"Can't  say.  Never  thought!  .  .  .  Fact  is — my  wife 
had  frightened  me  horribly.  When  your  machine  bore 
down  on  her — posted  right  in  the  middle  of  the  gravel — I 
was  scared  stiff — give  you  my  honour! — you  might  have 
sunk  a  brace  of  Dreadnoughts  in  the  pakns  of  my  hands!" 


Sherbrand  31 

Franky  made  this  absurd  statement  with  so  sincere  an  air, 
and  chnched  it  so  effectually  by  displaying  a  lovely  silk- 
cambric  handkerchief  in  a  state  of  soppy  limpness,  that  the 
abrased  inventor  nearly  laughed. 

But  his  thick,  silvery,  fair  eyebrows  settled  into  a  straight 
line  across  his  tanned  forehead.  He  said  with  a  directness 
that  seemed  to  belong  to  his  lean,  keen,  hatchet-faced  type: 

"Once  more,  I  am  glad  that  no  harm  has  happened  to  the 
lady.  The  delay  caused  by  the — mishap  can  hardly  have 
prejudiced  my  success.  For  all  I  know,  the  test  of  my 
hoverer  may  have  favourably  impressed  the  judges.  If  it 
has  done  otherwise  I  have  no  right  to  blame  man,  dog,  or 
devil,  for  a  failure  that  may  be  my  own." 

He  lifted  his  goggled  cap  to  Margot  with  a  good  air, 
pulled  it  down,  and  was  in  the  act  of  lowering  the  visor,  when 
Margot's  voice  arrested  the  big-boned  hand.  That  voice 
Franky  knew  could  be  wonderfully  coaxing.  It  pleaded 
now,  soft  as  the  sigh  of  a  Mediterranean  breeze: 

"Whether  the  test  is  successful  or  isn't,  will  you  promise 
that  we  shall  hear  from  you  ?   .    .    ." 

"Good  egg!"  joined  in  Franky.  "Do  let  us  know!  .  .  . 
We're  stopping  at  the  Spitz,  Place  Vendome. "  He  warmed 
and  grew  expansive  in  the  light  of  Margot's  smile  of  ap- 
proval. "Drop  in  on  us  there,"  he  urged,  "as  soon  as 
you've  found  out.  Come  and  dine  with  us  in  any  case.  .  .  . 
No! — we're  engaged  to-night,  but  come  and  lunch  at  two 
sharp  to-morrow,  and  tell  us  all  about  your  hoverer  over  a 
bottle  of  Bubbly.  Suite  10,  Second  Floor.  Name  of  Nor- 
water.  Stick  this  away  to  remind  you,"  he  ended,  tender- 
ing his  card. 

"  You're  awfully  good.    But  at  the  same  time  I  haidly " 

The  voice  broke  off.  A  glance  at  the  proffered  pasteboard 
had  dyed  the  inventor  flaming  scarlet  from  the  collar  of  his 
dusty  gabardine  to  the  edges  of  his  goggled  cap.  H*c  dropped 
the  card  quietly  upon  the  gravel,  and  said,  looking  Franky 
straight  between  the  eyes: 


32  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"Even  if  I  were  able  to  accept  I'd  have  to  decline  your 
invitation.  My  name's  Sherbrand — I'm  your  Uncle  Alan's 
son. "  He  settled  himself  in  the  saddle  and  finished  before 
he  pulled  up  the  starting-lever.  "  Understand — I'd  no  idea 
who  you  were  until  I  saw  the  name  on  your  card.  It  has 
been  a  queer  encounter — I  can't  say  a  pleasant  one.  Let  me 
end  it  by  saying 'Good-day!'   .    .    ." 

Franky's  new-found  cousin  touched  the  goggled  cap  and 
pulled  up  the  starting-lever.  With  the  customary  bang  and 
snort,  the  motor-bicycle  leaped  away.  Margot  had  uttered 
a  little  gasp  at  the  moment  of  revelation.  Now  she  turned 
great  eyes  of  dismay  on  Franky,  and  withdrew  them  quickly. 
For  Franky's  eyes  had  become  circular  and  poppy,  his 
mouth  tried  to  shape  itself  into  a  whistle,  but  his  expression 
was  merely  vacuous.  He  continued  to  explode  with  "  Great 
Snipe!"  at  intervals,  as  he  and  Margot  made  their  way  back 
to  more  populous  avenues,  chartered  a  fortuitously  passing 
taxi,  and  were  driven  back  via  the  Porte  Dauphine  to  Spitz's 
gorgeous  caravanserai  in  the  Place  Vendome,  v/hen  Margot 
vanished  into  her  own  bower,  sending  her  French  maid  to 
intimate  to  Milord  that  Miladi  would  take  tea  alone  in  that 
apartment,  and  did  not  intend  to  dine. 

Thus  Franky,  relieved  from  duty,  presently  found  himself, 
in  company  with  a  cigar,  strolling  bachelor-fashion  through 
the  streets  of  Paris.  No  very  clear  recollection  stayed  with 
him  of  how  he  spent  the  afternoon.  At  one  time  he  found 
himself  with  his  features  glued  against  the  plate-glass  win- 
dow of  a  celebrated  establishment  dedicated  to  the  culture 
and  restoration  of  feminine  beauty,  contemplating  divers 
gilt  wigs  on  stands — porcelain  pots  of  marvellous  unguents, 
warranted  to  eliminate  wrinkles ;  sachets  of  mystic  herbs  to 
be  immersed  in  baths;  creams  guaranteed  to  impart  to  the 
most  exhausted  skin  the  velvety  freshness  of  infancy. 

Later  he  strayed  into  a  sunny,  green-turfed  public  garden, 
full  of  white  statues,  sparkling  fountains,  and  municipal 


Sherbrand  33 

I"  seats  whereon  Burgundian,  Dalmatian,  and  Alsatian  wet- 
nurses  dandled  or  rocked  or  nourished  their  infant  charges, 
and  bonnes  or  governesses  presided  over  the  gambols  of  older 
babies,  who  played  with  belled  Pierrots,  or  toy  automobiles, 
or  inflated  balls  of  gorgeous  hues. 

There  is  nothing  profoundly  moving  in  the  sight  of  a  stout, 
beribboncd  wet-nurse  suckling  her  employer's  infant.  But 
into  the  company  of  these  important  hirelings  came  quite 
unconsciously  a  young  working-woman  in  a  shabby  brown 
merino  skirt  and  a  blouse  of  white  Swiss.  Her  shining  black 
hair  was  uncovered  to  the  sunshine.  On  one  arm  she 
carried  a  bouncing  baby,  on  the  other  a  basket  containing 
cabbages  and  onions,  and  a  flask  of  cheap  red  wine,  which 
receptacle  its  owner,  having  taken  the  other  end  of  the  seat 
Franky  occupied,  set  down  between  herself  and  the  young 
man.  She  was  a  healthy,  plump  young  woman  with  too 
pronounced  a  moustache  for  beauty.  But  when,  having 
methodically  turned  the  baby  upside  down  to  rearrange 
some  detail  of  its  scanty  dress,  she  reversed  it  and  bared  her 
breast  to  the  eager  mouth,  a  strange  thrill  went  through 
Franky.  A  dimness  came  before  his  vision,  and  it  was  as 
though  those  dimpled  hands  plucked  at  his  heart.  He 
suflcred  a  sudden  revulsion  strange  in  a  young  man  so 
m^odem,  up-to-date,  and  beautifully  tailored.  He  knew 
that  he  longed  for  a  son  most  desperately.  And  the  devil 
of  it  was — Margot  did  not. 


CHAPTER   VII 


THE   CONSOLATRIX 


Thus,  Franky  got  up  and  moved  away,  driven  by  the  sting- 
ing cloud  of  thoughts  that  pursued  and  battened  on  him,  and 
presently  found  himself  following  a  stream  of  people  up  a 
flight  of  marble  steps,  and  under  an  imposing  portico  that 
ended  in  a  turnstile  and  a  National  Collection  of  Paintings 
and  Sculptures. 

Wandering  through  a  maze  of  long  skylighted  galleries 
where  the  master-works  of  Modern  Art  are  conserved  and 
cherished,  he  was  to  encounter  the  thought  that  haunted 
him  in  a  myriad  of  images,  wrought  by  the  chisel,  the  brush, 
the  burin,  and  the  graving- tool  in  marble  or  bronze,  upon 
canvas  or  panel,  in  ivory,  or  silver,  or  enamel,  or  gold. 

A  sculptured  Hagar  mourning  by  the  side  of  her  dying 
Ishmael  caught  his  eye  as  he  entered  the  first  gallery. 
Farther  on.  Eve  after  the  Fall  lifted  the  infant  Cain  to  re- 
ceive the  kiss  of  Adam,  homing  to  his  shack  of  green 
branches  at  the  end  of  the  labouring  day.  And  a  shag- 
thighed,  curly-horned  Pan  romped  with  a  litter  of  sturdy 
bear-cubs,  and  medallions  and  panels  of  childhood  were 
everywhere. 

It  was  the  same  in  the  galleries  devoted  to  painting.  A 
Breton  christening-party,  depicted  with  the  roughness  that 
hides  consummate  mastery  of  technique,  trudged  along  a 
snowy  coast-road  towards  a  little  chapel  near  the  seashore. 
The  young  mother  in  her  winged  starched  cap  and  bodice 
of  black  velvet,  yet  pale  from  the  ordeal  of  anguish,  walked 
between  her  smiling  gossips,  carrying  her  new-born  infant, 
chrysalis-like  in  its  linen  swaddlings,  to  be  made  into  a  good 
Christian  by  M.  le  Cure.     And  seated  on  a  broken  throne  of 

31 


The  Consolatrix  35 

red  granite  beneath  the  towering  propylaeum  of  a  ruined 
Egyptian  temple,  whose  colonnades  of  lotus  columns,  and 
walls  painted  with  processions  of  hierophants  offering  in- 
cense to  bird  or  beast-headed  deities,  and  bewigged  dancers 
and  musicians  ministering  to  the  pleasures  of  long-eyed 
kings,  receded  down  long  perspectives  into  distance,  a 
Woman,  young  and  slender  and  draped  in  a  long  blue  cloak 
over  a  white  robe,  gazed  downwards  at  a  naked  Child  sleep- 
ing upon  her  knees.  And  about  the  downy  temples  of  the 
Child  shone  a  slender  ring  of  mystic  brightness,  and  another, 
more  faint,  haloed  the  chastely  beautiful  head  of  the  Mother 
bending  above. 

Another  canvas,  austere  and  gorgeous,  with  the  mar- 
vellous blues  and  emeralds  and  rich  deep  crimsons  of  old 
Byzantine  ornament  in  relief  against  a  background  of  dull 
tawny  gold,  showed  the  same  maternal  figure,  far  older  and 
in  darker  draperies,  seated  upon  a  chair  of  wrought  ivory 
upon  a  dais,  looking  outward  and  upward  with  deep  eyes  of 
unfathomable  tenderness  and  sorrow,  and  pale  hands  lifted 
in  supplication  to  that  Heaven  whither  Her  Son  ascended 
after  His  Victory  over  Death.  Across  the  knees  of  the 
Consolatrix  Afflictorum  a  mourning  mother  lay  prone  and 
tearless.  And  at  the  feet  of  the  Virgin,  outstretched  amidst 
the  scattered  petals  of  some  fallen  roses,  you  saw  the  nude, 
beautiful  body  of  a  male  child  of  some  three  years  old. 

But  little  of  the  inner  meaning  of  Bouguereau's  great 
picture  filtered  through  Franky's  honest  brown  eyes  to  the 
mind  that  lay  somewhere  behind  them.  But  he  realised 
that  for  the  grieving  woman  who  had  borne  a  son  and  lost 
him  there  was  no  more  joy  in  the  world. 

The  Child  of  that  Woman  upon  whose  knees  she  leaned 
her  breaking  heart  had  lived  to  attain  to  the  perfect  ripeness 
of  glorious  Manhood.  But  then.  .  .  .  Franky  followed  the 
lines  of  the  dark,  downward-drifting  veil  up  to  the  rapt 
Mother-face  with  the  sorrowful,  close-folded  mouth  and  the 


36  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

deep,  fathomless  eyes,  and  remembered  what  had  happened 
to  Her  Son. 


"Beg  pardon!"  he  found  himself  muttering  between  his 
teeth.  His  hand  went  up,  and  he  had  bared  his  sleek  brown 
head  before  he  knew.  This  wasn't  a  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  anyway  .  .  .  there  was  no  obligation  even  to 
appear  respectful;  France  had  long  ago  kicked  over  the 
traces  of  Religion — all  French  people  were  Freethinkers  in 
these  days.  Telling  himself  this,  Franky  did  not  replace 
the  shiny  topper.  One  rapid  glance  to  right  and  left  had 
shown  him  that  the  gallery  was  nearly  empty;  the  few  visit- 
ors it  contained  were  too  far  distant  to  have  observed  the 
action.  Except,  possibly,  one  person,  a  lean,  short,  elderly 
man  in  shabby  black,  who  stood  some  paces  behind,  a  little 
to  the  left  of  Franky,  holding  a  shovel-brimmed  round- 
crowned  beaver  with  both  hands  against  his  sunken  chest 
as  he  gazed  with  bright,  absorbed  eyes  at  the  wonderful 
rapt  face  of  the  Consoler;  his  lips  moving  rapidly  as  he 
whispered  to  himself,  not  breaking  off  or  twitching  a  muscle 
because  Franky  had  glanced  round: 

Franky  glanced  round  again,  and  this  time  encountered 
the  oddly  young  eyes  of  his  neighbour,  looking  from  a  brown, 
deeply  wrinkled  visage  framed  in  thickly  growing,  straight 
black  hair,  heavily  streaked  with  white. 

"Monsieur  is  a  lover  of  Art?" 

Undoubtedly  a  Frenchman,  he  addressed  Franky  in  cul- 
tured English,  with  a  tone  and  manner  excellently  graced. 
The  vivid  clearness  of  his  amber-coloured  eyes,  set  in  the 
now  smiling  mask  of  walnut-brown  wrinkles,  was  attractive. 
And  Franky  answered,  unconsciously  warming  to  the  look 
and  smile : 

"Must  say  I  hardly  know.  Things  that  clever,  intellec- 
tual people  go  into  raptures  over,  bore  me  simply  stiff.  Other 
things — things  they  howl  down — go  straight  to  the  spot,  you 
see.     And  all  I  can  sav  when  I'm  hauled  over  the  coals  for 


The  Consolatrix  37 

liking  rubbish  is,  that  the  rubbish  is  good  enough  for  this 
child." 

"I  comprehend.  Monsieur  has  the  courage  of  his  con- 
victions. It  is  a  quality  rare  in  these  days.  And — this 
painting  particularly  appeals  to  Monsieur?  May  one  be 
pardoned  for  asking  why?" 

The  voice  was  suave,  but  it  somehow  compelled  an  answer. 
Franky,  with  an  indistinct  remembrance  of  viva  voce  exam- 
inations awakening  in  him,  cleared  his  throat  and  fell  back 
a  pace  or  two.  .  .  .  Well  set  up  and  well-bred,  well- 
groomed  and  well-dressed,  his  figure,  beside  that  other  in  the 
priestly  soutane  of  rusty  alpaca,  short  enough  to  reveal 
coarse  ribbed  stockings  of  black  yarn,  and  cracked  prunella 
shoes  with  worn  steel  buckles,  made  a  contrast  sufficiently 
quaint  to  provoke  a  stare  of  curiosity,  had  any  observer 
passed  just  then.  But  standing  together  on  the  beeswaxed 
floor  at  the  upper  end  of  the  long,  bright,  skylighted  gallery, 
the  Guardsman  and  his  temporary  acquaintance  were  as 
private  as  it  is  possible  to  be  in  a  public  place. 

Thus,  at  the  cost  of  a  heightened  complexion  and  an  occa- 
sional stammer,  Franky  explained  himself.  The  painting 
appealed  to  him  because  it  recalled  a  Bible  story — made 
familiar  to  Franky  by  reason  of  having  swotted  it  at  School 
for  Sunday  Ques.  with  other  fellows  of  the  Fifth  in  Grey- 
shott's  time.  Also,  on  the  wind-up  Sunday  of  his,  Franky's, 
Last  Term,  having  passed  for  the  Army  with  the  dev — hem ! 
— of  a  lot  of  trouble — a  beastly  epidemic  of  diphtheria  and 
scarlet  fever  having  broken  out  among  the  children  of  the 
Windsor  poor,  the  Head  had  preached  from  the  text  in  Big 
Chapel.     And  the  text  went  something  like  this: 

"A  Voice  in  Ra7na  vjas  heard,  of  lamentalion  and  mourning: 
Rachel  bewailing  her  children:  and  would  not  be  comforted 
because  they  arc  not/' 

The  haggard,  beautiful,  tearless  Rachel  of  the  picture 
hadn't  bucked  at  the  disfigurement  and  the  pain  and  the 
danger  of  child-bearing.     She  had  welcomed  them  for  the 


38  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

sake  of  the  kid.  ...  It  was  a  thundering  pity  he  hadn't 
lived — in  Franky's  opinion;  "woman  jolly  well  deserved 
to  have  been  let  keep  that  clinking  fine  boy  to  rear. " 

"I  comprehend."  The  clear  eyes  flashed  into  Franky's, 
the  withered  brown  mask  was  alight  with  sympathetic  intel- 
ligence. ' '  To  Monsieur,  an  English  officer  and  a  member  of 
the  Protestant  Church  of  England,  that  woman  who  leans 
her  bursting  heart  upon  the  knees  of  the  Mother  of  Consola- 
tion is  Rachel."     He  quoted: 

"'Vox  in  Rama  audita  est,  ploratus  et  ululatus:  Rachel 
plorans  filios  suos:  et  noluit  consolari,  quia  non  sunt. ' " 

"That's  it!"  Franky  nodded,  admitting  candidly: 
"Though  I  always  was  a  duffer  at  Latin,  and  we  weren't 
taught  at  School  to  pronounce  it — quite  in  that  way." 

Said  the  clear-eyed  old  man,  whose  dark  wrinkled  throat 
displayed  no  edge  of  linen  above  the  plain  circular  collar  of 
the  soutane,  only  a  significant  border  of  purple  from  which 
two  widish  lappets  of  the  same  colour  depended  beneath 
the  peaked  and  mobile  chin,  and  who  might  have  been  a 
prelate  of  sorts,  had  it  not  been  understood  of  simple  Franky 
that  the  State  had  abolished  the  Catholic  religion  and  ban- 
ished all  priests,  monks,  and  nuns  from  France. 

' '  The  Italianate  Latin  puzzles  you.  ...  It  is — slightly 
different  to  the  Latin  they  taught  you  at  Eton  ?  Hein  ? 
When  I  lived  in  England — not  so  long  ago — I  counted  sev- 
eral brave  Eton  fellows  among  my  acquaintances.  And 
their  mental  attitude  with  regard  to  the  language  of  Virgil, 
Horace,  and  Tacitus  was  precisely  that  of  Monsieur. " 

He  chuckled,  and  his  oddly  young  eyes  twinkled  quite 
gaily  as  he  pulled  out  a  battered  little  silver  snuff-box  and 
helped  himself,  wrinkling  his  thin  hooked  nose  with  evident 
enjoyment.  As  he  dusted  the  pungent  brown  grains  from 
his  lappets  with  a  coarse  blue-checked  cotton  handkerchief, 
an  amethyst  ring  on  the  wrinkled  hand  flashed  pink  and 
violet  in  the  light. 

"To  Monsieur  who  is  doubtless  familiar  with  the  Scrip- 


The  Consolatrix  39 

tures  in  Tyndall's  translation,  I  might  suggest  that  the  Latin 
of  the  Ancient  Romans  should  be  pronounced  in  the  Roman 
style !  But  Monsieur  will  pardon  this  tone  of  the  pedagogue. 
I  will  not  '  bore  you  stiff'  with  a  classical  disquisition.  Per- 
mit me  to  thank  you  for  your  amiable  compliance  with  the 
request  of  an  old  man,  and  to  wish  you  good-day. " 

He  combined  apology,  farewell,  and  dismissal  in  a  courtly 
little  bow,  and  as  though  undoubting  that  the  other  would 
pass  on,  plunged  again  into  the  picture.  But  Franky  lin- 
gered to  say,  awkwardly: 

"Perhaps  ...     If  you  don't  mind.    ..." 

"Ilein?   ..." 

The  keen  eyes  reverted  to  his  embarrassed  face  instantly. 

"What  if  I  do  not  mind?  .  .  .  There  is  something  you 
desire  to  ask  me? " 

"Well,  yes!"  Franky  admitted.  "Don't  quite  pipe  why, 
but  I  rather  cotton  to  hearing  your  version.  ...  Of  the 
meaning  of  that  picture,  you  know!   .    .    .  " 

"Yes — yes!  I  understand!  .  .  ."  The  vivid  eyes 
flashed  piercingly  into  Franky's,  and  leaped  back  to  the 
great  glorious  canvas  within  the  stately  frame.  "To  you 
who  were  once  a  boy  at  Eton  that  woman  who  has  no  more 
tears  to  shed  is  Rachel  of  Rama ....  To  me,  once  Sem- 
inarist of  the  Institut  Catholique,  as  to  others  of  my  holy 
faith  and  sacred  calling — she  is  France — our  beloved  France, 
who  leans  upon  the  knees  and  against  the  bosom  of  the 
Catholic  Church  in  her  bereavement — mourning  with  an- 
guish unutterable  her  children  who  are  dead.  .  .  .  Dead  to 
Faith,  dead  to  the  Spiritual  Life — members  separated  from 
the  Body  of  Christ  by  their  own  choice  as  by  the  act  of 
Government.  Lost! — unless  the  ray  of  Divine  Grace  find 
and  touch  them  in  their  self-made  darkness,  and  they  repent, 
and  turn  themselves  to  Christ  again!" 

Franky  said,  with  wholly  lovable  banality: 

"  Rather  sweepin',  but  natural  conclusion,  from  a  religious 
point  o'  view.     Still,  when  a  whole  nation  gets  up  like  one 


40  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

man  and  bally  well  chucks  a  Religion,  there  must  be  some- 
thing jolly  of[-colour  and  thundering  rotten  about  that 
Religion,  don't  you  know?" 

"A  whole  nation!" 

The  bright  eyes  held  Franky's  sternly.  He  lifted  his  right 
arm,  and  the  withered  hand  still  shut  upon  the  battered 
snufE-box  shot  up  two  fingers  in  vigorous  protest.  "Pardon, 
Monsieur — you  are  very  seriously  mistaken.  France  was 
never  more  Catholic  at  heart  than  now.  How  strange! — 
when  but  twenty-one  miles  of  salt  water  divide  Calais  from 
Dover — when  the  Entente  Cordiale  has  established  between 
your  country  and  mine  nominally  close  and  intimate  rela- 
tions ;  that  so  complete  an  ignorance  as  to  the  French  Nation, 
its  Government,  its  mode  of  thought,  its  moral,  religious, 
and  social  conditions,  should  be  found  prevailing  in  Great 
Britain  to-day!" 

"My  dear  sir,  you're  off  the  bull — completely  off!"  pro- 
tested Franky — Franky  whose  second  sister  was  married  to 
a  Frenchman,  Franky  who  knew  Paris  as  well  as  the  inside 
of  his  week-end  suit-case,  by  Jove ! 

A  deprecating  shrug  and  a  supple  outstretched  hand  cut 
short  the  speaker. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur  1' Anglais — I  know  what  you  would 
say  to  me !  There  is  much  force  in  the  argument.  ...  It 
is  tres  sensee — and  there  is  truth  in  it,  and  yet  it  is  false — 
to  be  guilty  of  a  paradox.  The  aristocracy  of  Great  Britain, 
like  her  plutocracy,  set  high  value  upon  much  that  comes 
from  France.  British  gold  is  poured  into  my  country  in 
return  for  the  newest  and  most  fanciful  modes  in  costume, 
millinery,  and  jewellery.  And  not  only  do  your  beautiful 
women  adorn  themselves  with  the  inventions  of  our  bold 
and  original  genius  for  ornament,  but  for  your  mentis,  your 
pleasiires,  the  novels  and  plays  that  paint  in  intoxicating 
coloiirs  the  joys  of  unchaste  love  and  illicit  passion,  for  the 
sensuous  poetry  that  is  garlanded  with  the  flame-hued 
flowers  of  Evil,  you  are  ready  to  praise  and  pay  us  lavishly, 


The  Consolatrix  41 

as  though  no  nobler  growth  than  this  rank  luxuriance  sprang 
from  the  intellectual  soil  of  France.  Our  vices — alas ! — with 
the  appalling  diseases  that  spring  from  them,  and  the  com- 
binations of  drugs  that  alleviate  these — all  find  with  you  a 
ready  market.  And  you  attend  our  race-meetings  at  Long- 
champs  and  Auteuil,  where  English  jockeys  ride  French  and 
Irish  horses — and  you  believe,  you! — that  you  know  the 
social  life  of  France.  No! — but  you  are  ignorant — pro- 
foundly ignorant!  May  GOD  be  thanked  that  you  mis- 
judge us  thus  cruelly.  For  if  my  country  were  no  better 
than  Great  Britain  and  other  foreign  nations  believe  her  to 
be,  it  were  time  indeed  for  a  rain  of  fire  from  Heaven!" 

Hardly  raising  his  voice  above  a  clear  whisper,  the  emo- 
tion and  vehemence  with  which  he  spoke,  and  the  swift  and  • 
fiery  gesticulations  with  which  he  illustrated  utterance, 
made  the  sweat  start  out  in  beads  upon  his  wrinkled  fore- 
head and  cheeks.  He  wiped  these  off  with  the  blue  checked 
handkerchief,  saying: 

"Pardon!  I  grow  warm  when  I  speak  of  these  things, 
I  recognise  that  if  in  the  judgment  of  other  nations  France 
is  a  courtesan  drunk  with  lechery,  or  at  the  best  un  esprit 
follet,  she  has  brought  this  judgment  upon  herself.  Flip- 
pancy, the  desire  to  fair  e  de  V  esprit  under  any  circumstances 
— the  bold  and  brilliant  gaiety  that  is  her  exclusive  and  most 
beautiful  characteristic — these  have  caused  her  to  be  mis- 
understood. But  whatever  else  she  be,  she  is  not  Pagan 
nor  Agnostic.  To  believe  that  is  to  wrong  her  cruelly, 
Monsieur!" 

Franky,  by  now  hopelessly  at  sea,  endured  the  hailstorm 
of  sv/ift,  vehement  sentences  with  an  expression  of  amiable 
vacuity,  his  stiffly  pendent  hands  plainly  yearning  for  the 
refuge  of  his  trousers  pockets,  his  mind  rocking  on  the  waves 
of  the  stranger's  passionate  eloquence  like  a  toy  yacht  adrift 
on  the  bosom  of  the  Atlantic.  And  the  resonant  Gallic 
voice  "vrent  on:     , 


CHAPTER   VIII 


MOXSEIGNEUR 


*'The  masters  of  Prance  to-day  are  hostile  to  Christianity. 
They  are  Freemasons  (Freemasonry  in  England  is  not  Free- 
masonry as  it  is  understood  here);  they  are  Freethinkers, 
Socialists,  Internationalists,  and  Hedonists,  the  avowed 
enemies  of  the  Catholic  Faith.  Hence,  churches,  semin- 
aries, and  schools  have  been  closed  by  Government,  com- 
munities of  religious  men  and  women  have  been  uprooted 
and  exiled.  Priests  have  been  banished,  ecclesiastical  and 
private  property  has  been  appropriated  and  confiscated, 
churches  have  been  desecrated,  the  sNinbols  of  Christianity 
and  religion  everywhere  torn  down.  In  France  upon  Good 
Friday  the  standard  of  the  Republic  waves  proudly,  while 
the  flag  of  every  other  Christian  nation  hangs  at  half-mast 
high.  And  yet — the  great  mass  of  the  French  people  are — 
Catholic  and  nothing  but  Catholic !  The  light  may  be  hid- 
den, but  the  fire  of  devotion  still  burns  in  millions  of  faithful 
hearts  gathered  about  the  Church's  altars,  beating  beside 
the  hearths  of  innumerable  homes  in  France.  Blood — tor- 
rents of  blood — would  not  quench  that  sacred  fire.  When 
the  Day  of  Expiation  comes,  as  it  will  come,  most  surely, 
the  Catholicism  of  France  will  prove  her  salvation  yet!" 

With  the  final  sentence,  the  hand  that  had  been  lifted  in 
gesture  dropped  to  the  side  of  the  speaker.  The  flashing 
glance  took  in  Franky  from  the  top  of  his  sleek  bewildered 
head  to  the  tips  of  his  beautiful  patent-leathers.  He  said 
with  a  smile  of  irresistible  amusement : 

"Monsieur,  I  fear  I  have  fatigued  you.  Let  me  thank 
you  for  your  admirable  patience.  Au  revoir,  or  if  you  pre- 
fer it — Adieu!" 

42 


Monseigneur  43 

Another  of  the  quick  little  bows,  and  he  had  covered 
himself  and  passed  on  rapidly.  Franlcy  reflected,  staring 
after  the  short  black  figure  in  the  caped  soutane  with  the 
worn  piirple  sash  and  shabby  beaver  shovel-hat,  as  it  re- 
ceded from  his  view. 

"Fruity  old  wordster,  'pon  my  natural!  Toppin'  fine 
talker!  Wonder  who  he  is?  Head  of  a  Public  School, 
swottin'  an  address  for  the  beginning  of  the  Midsummer 
Half  term — a  Professor  of  Divinity  gettin'  up  a  lecture — the 
Archbishop  of  Paris  rehearsin'  a  sermon.  Whichever  they 
call  him,  why  don't  he  pitch  his  language  at  a  man  of  his 
own  size?" 

And  he  went  back  to  the  Spitz  through  the  boulevards 
that  were  surging  with  the  afternoon  life  of  Paris,  and  heard 
from  Pauline  that  Miladi  had  retired  to  bed.  She  had  al- 
ready dispatched  a  billet  of  excuses  to  Sir  Brayham,  with 
whom  Miladi  and  Milord  were  engaged  to  dine  downstairs 
that  evening,  explaining  that  a  headache  prevented  her 
from  accompanying  Milord.  He — Milord — must  be  sure  to 
make  no  noise  in  changing  for  dinner,  as  Miladi,  after  a 
crisis  of  the  nerves  of  the  most  alarming,  was  now  sleeping 
like  an  angel,  having  taken  a  potion  calmante  of  orange- 
flower  syrup  with  water,  not  the  veronal  so  heartily  de- 
tested of  Milord .    .    .    .  ' 

"Slcepin'  like  an  angel,  is  she?  .  .  .  Good  cgg\ — 
though  I  thought  angels  never  went  to  bed — flew  about  sing- 
ing all  the  giddy  time.  Righto,  though!  I  won't  disturb 
her  ladyship.  .  .  .     Whenshe  wakes,  give  her  my  love.  .  .  ." 

And  Franky  entered  his  dressing-room  on  cautious  tiptoe, 
lighted  a  cigarette,  rang  the  bell  for  his  valet,  and  began  to 
reflect. 

It  was  to  have  been  a  dinner  of  eight  people — Brayham 
the  host,  with  Lady  Wathe,  skinny  little  vitriol-tongued 
woman ! — a  man  unknown  who  was  to  have  sat  next  Margot; 
Commandei  Courtlcy — ripping  good  fellow  old  Courtley !  no 


44  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

better  sailor  walked  the  quarter-deck  of  a  First-Class  Cruiser 
— damn  shame  those  Admiralty  bigwigs  denied  such  a  fellow 
post-rank;  and  Lady  Beauvayse,  formerly  Miss  Sadie  Scul- 
pin  of  New  York — pretty  American  with  pots  of  boodle, 
married  to  that  ghastly  little  bounder  who'd  stepped  into 
the  shoes  a  better  man  would  be  wearing  if  his  elder  brother 
(handsome  fellow  who  married  an  actress,  Lessie  Lavigne 
of  the  Jollity — good  old  Jollity !)  hadn't  got  pipped  in  that 
scrum  with  the  Boers  in  1 900-1 901. 

Lessie,  Lady  Beauvayse,  the  widder  called  herself  on  the 
posters  and  programmes.  Come  down  to  second-rate  parts 
in  Music  Hall  Revue — gettin'  elderly  and  stout.  Must  see 
red  when  she  happened  to  spy  the  present  Lord  Beauvayse's 
pretty  peeress  in  the  stalls  or  boxes.  .  .  .  Wonder  why 
the  P.P.  made  such  a  pal  of  Patrine  Saxham?  Niece  of  Sax- 
ham  of  Harley  Street — handsome  as  paint,  proud  as  the 
devil,  and  an  Advanced  Thinker — according  to  Margot. 
Remembering  the  gift  of  the  ^ade  tree-frog,  Franky  involun- 
tarily wrinkled  his  nose. 

With  Lady  Beau  and  the  Saxham  girl,  there  would  be  a 
party  of  seven,  counting  the  man  unknown.  .  .  .  Might 
go  on  afterwards  to  the  Folies  Bergere  or  the  Theatre 
Marigny — or  perhaps  the  Jardin  de  Paris.  Why  hadn't 
Jobling  answered  his  master's  bell?  Why  had  he  depu- 
tised a  waiter  to  enquire  whether  his  lordship  wished  his 
valet?  Did  he  think  waiters  were  paid  to  do  his,  Job- 
ling's,  work  for  him?  Or  did  he,  Jobling,  suppose  he  was 
kept  for  show? 

The  strenuous  stage-whisper  in  which  Franky  addressed 
the  recalcitrant  Jobling  penetrated  the  door-panels  of  the 
adjoining  bower,  as  such  whispers  usually  do.  But  Margot 
was  really  sleeping — the  orange-flower  water  had  had  a  few 
drops  of  chloral  mingled  with  it.  Milord  had  never  pro- 
hibited chloral,  as  Pauline  had  pointed  out.  But  unsus- 
picious Franky,  unfigging  (as  he  termed  the  process),  while 
the  tardy  Jobling  prepared  his  master's  bath  and  laid  out 


Monseigneur  45 

his  master's  "glad  rags, "  plumed  himself  upon  having  made 
a  notable  advance  in  the  science  of  wife-government.  Even 
the  blameless  potion  of  orange-flower  testified  to  his  mascu- 
line strength  of  will. 


CHAPTER    IX 


SIR   THOMAS    ENTERTAINS 


You  are  invited  to  follow  Franky,  and  sit  with  him  at  his 
friend  Tom  Brayham's  circular  board,  decorated  with  great 
silver  bowls  of  marvellous  Rayon  d'Or  roses,  that  seemed  to 
exhale  the  harvested  sunshine  of  summer  from  their  fier}'' 
golden  hearts. 

You  remember  the  famous  dining-room  of  the  big  Paris 
caravanserai,  with  its  archways  supported  by  slender  pillars 
of  creamy  pink  Carrara  marble,  wreathed  with  inlaid  fillets 
of  green  malachite  and  lapis  lazuli,  and  its  electric  illum- 
inants  concealed  behind  an  oxidised  silver  frieze.  And 
possibly  you  need  no  introduction  to  the  deity — plain  and 
middle-aged — in  whose  honour  Brayham — the  Hon.  Sir 
Thomas  Brayham,  an  ex- Justice  of  the  King's  Bench  Divi- 
sion— in  the  remote  mid-Victorian  era  a  famous  Q.C. — 
made  oblation  of  luscious  m.eats  and  special  wines.  The 
clever,  sharp-tongued,  penniless  niece  of  a  famous  Minister 
for  Foreign  Affairs,  she  had  made  a  love-match  at  twenty 
with  Lord  Watho  Wathe,  a  handsome  and  equally  impecun- 
ious subaltern  in  a  famous  Highland  regiment,  who  was 
killed  upon  Active  Service  twenty  years  later,  while  travel- 
ling upon  a  special  mission  to  the  Front  Headquarters  during 
the  South  African  War  of  1900. 

Two  years  later  his  widow  conferred  her  hand  upon  Mr. 
Reuben  Munts,  of  Kimberley  and  South  Carfordshire,  a 
diamond-mining  magnate  who  had  made  his  colossal  pile 
before  the  War.  She  had  never  borne  her  second  husband's 
name,  and  when  he  died,  leaving  her  sole  mistress  of  his 
millions.  Lady  Wathe  resumed  her  place  in  Society,  thence- 
forwards  to  sparkle  as  never  before. 

46 


Sir  Thomas  Entertains  47 

"The  '  Chronique  Scandaleuse^  in  a  diamond  setting" 
some  phrase-maker  clever  as  herself  had  aptly  termed  her. 
Without  her  riches,  stripped  of  her  wonderful  diamonds, 
Society  might  have  found  her  to  be  merely  a  little  chattering 
woman,  avid  of  the  reputation  of  a  htunorist  and  raconteuse, 
unflagging  in  her  relish  for  stories,  not  seldom  of  the  broad- 
est, related  at  her  own  expense  or  at  the  cost  of  other  people, 
and  over-liberally  garnished  with  nods  and  becks,  darting 
glances,  and  wreathed  smiles. 

Upon  this  night  of  the  Grand  Prix — ^won,  you  will  remem- 
ber, by  Baron  M.  de  Rothschild's  "  Sardanapole  " — the  little 
lady's  jests  fizzled  and  coruscated  like  Japanese  fireworks. 
Her  gibes  buzzed  and  stung  like  wasps  about  a  lawn-set 
tea-table,  when  new-made  jam  and  fragrant  honey  tempt 
the  yellow-and-black  marauders  to  the  board.  And  yet 
from  the  soup  to  the  entremets,  Franky  listened  in  dour  and 
smileless  silence,  unable  to  conjure  up  a  grin  at  the  sharpest 
of  the  Goblin's  witticisms,  or  swell  the  guffaw  that  invari-- 
ably  followed  the  naughtiest  of  her  douhle-enlendres. 

"Off  colour,  what?  .  .  .  "  his  crony  Courtley  queried  ini 
a  sympathetic  undertone,  catching  a  glimpse  of  Franky's. 
cheerless  countenance  behind  the  bare,  convulsed  back  and 
snowy  heaving  shoulders  of  Lady  Beauvayse,  who  occupied 
the  intervening  chair. 

* '  Putridly  off  colour ....  Walked  in  the  Bois,  and  got 
a  touch  of  the  sun,  I  fancy!"  Franky  whispered  back  too 
loudly,  drawing  upon  himself  the  Goblin's  equivoque: 

"The  sun  or  the  daughter,  did  you  say.  Lord  Norv/atcr? 
Dear  me!"  the  Goblin  shrilled;  "you're  actually  blushing! 
You've  revived  a  long-lost  Early  Victorian  art. " 

'Was  blushing  really  an  art  with  the  ladies  of  that  dim 
and  distant  era?"  asked  the  friendly  Brayham,  not  in  the 
least  comprehending  Franky's  discomfiture,  yet  desirous  of 
diverting  the  Goblin's  glittering  scrutiny  from  her  victim's 
scarlet  face. 

"It  was  the  art  that  concealed  Heart — or  assumed  it!" 


48  That  Which  Hath  Winers 


fc)" 


Lady  Watlie  retorted,  with  a  peal  of  elfish  laughter,  turning 
her  tight-skinned,  large-eyed,  wide-mouthed  ugHness  upon 
the  speaker,  and  nodding  her  Httle  round  head  until  the 
huge  and  perfectly  matched  diamonds  of  the  triple-rayed 
tiara  that  crowned  her  scanty  henna-dyed  tresses  flashed 
blinding  sparks  of  violet  and  red  and  emerald  splendour  in 
the  mellow-toned  radiance  of  the  electric  Hghts. 

The  Goblin  had  meant  nothing,  Franky  assured  himself, 
as  the  angry  blood  stopped  humming  in  his  ears,  and  his 
complexion  regained  its  normal  shade.  The  bad  pun  that 
had  bowled  him  over  had  possibly  been  uttered  without 
malicious  intent.  .  .  .  Yet  Lady  V/athe  rented  a  gor- 
geous suite  upon  the  floor  below  the  Norwater  apartments, 
and  one  of  her  three  lady's-maids  might  have  been  pumping 
Pauline.  .  .  .  What  was  she  saying?  .  .  .  Why  was 
everybody  cackling?   .    .    . 

The  Goblin  was  launched  upon  a  characteristic  story.  Its 
denouement — worked  up  with  skill  and  related  with  point- 
evoked  peal  upon  peal  of  laughter  from  the  guests  at  Bray- 
iiam's  table,  with  the  sole  exception  of  Franky,  whom  the 
anecdote  found  sulky  and  left  glum.  He  said  to  himself 
that  if  Lady  Beauvayse,  nee  Miss  Sadie  J.  Sculpin  of  New 
York,  sole  child  and  heiress  of  a  Yankee  who  had  made 
millions  out  of  Chewing  Gum,  chose  to  forget  her  position  as 
the  wife  of  a  British  Peer,  and  mother  of  his  children,  by 
Jove !  and  scream  at  such  nastiness,  it  was  her  look-out.  If 
the  big  red-blond  man  who  sat  on  Franky' s  right  shook  with 
amusement,  as  he  recapitulated  the  chief  points  of  the  story 
for  the  benefit  of  the  girl  who  sat  next  him,  it  was  his  afi:air. 
But  that  the  Saxham,  an  unmarried  girl,  who  oughtn't  to 
see  the  bearings  of  such  a  tale,  should  openly  revel  in  its 
saltness,  made  Franky  feel  sick — on  this  particular  night. 

He  realised  that  he  detested  the  Saxham  girl,  one  of 
Margot's  chosen  Club  intimates,  more  fervently  than  even 
Tota  Stannus  or  Joan  Delabrand;  more  thoroughly  than 
Rhona  Helvellyn;  only  little  less  heartily  than  he  hated 


Sir  Thomas  Entertains  49 

Cynthia  Charterhouse.  Big,  bold,  galiimphing,  provoca- 
tive— in  fact,  so  much  IT  that  you  couldn't  overlook  her — 
he  found  her  more  unpleasantly  attractive  than  usual,  in  a 
bodice  that  was  no  more  than  a  fold  of  shimmering  orange 
stuff  above  the  waist — tossing  the  panache  of  ospreys  that 
startlingly  crowned  her,  offering  up  her  persistant  illusion 
perfumes  for  the  delectation  of  the  appreciative  male. 

Only  look  at  her,  ready  to  climb  into  her  neighbour  s 
pocket.  Leaning  her  round  white  elbows  on  the  guipure 
table-cloth,  half-shutting  those  long  greeny-brown  Egyptian 
eyes  of  her,  wreathing  her  long  thick  white  neck  to  send  a 
daring  challenge  into  the  face  of  the  laughing  man.  A  big 
man,  bright  red-haired,  blue-eyed,  and  broad-chested,  show- 
ing every  shining  tooth  in  his  handsome  grinning  head.  .   .   . 

"She's  screaming,  isn't  she,  dear  Lady  Beau?"  Thus 
the  Saxham  to  her  employer,  friend,  and  ally,  across  the 
silver  bowls  of  Rayon  d'Or  roses,  her  naked  shoulder  brush- 
ing the  coat-sleeve  of  her  neighbour,  the  big  rufous  man. 
And  Lady  Beau  gushed  back: 

"In  marvellous  form  to-night.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think 
so.  Count?  Do  agree  with  us!"  and  the  big  man  agreed, 
with  the  accent  of  the  German  Fatherland : 

"Shcis,  kolossal.   .    .    .      WunderlicJi!   ..." 

"Who's  the  German  next  me — big  beggar  Lady  Beau  and 
Miss  Saxham  arc  gushing  over?"  Franky  presently  tele- 
graphed to  Courtlcy  behind  the  charming  American's 
accommodating  back.     And  Courtlcy  signalled  in  reply: 

"Von  Herrnung.  German  Count  of  sorts — Engineer 
and  Flieger  officer.  Son  of  an  Imperial  Councillor,  and 
cousin  to  Princess  Willy  of  Kiekower  Oestern — really 
rather  an  interestin'  beast  in  his  way.  Made  a  one-stop 
flight  to  Paris  from  Hanover  in  April,  with  an  Albatros 
biplane.  Previously  won  an  event  in  the  Prinz  Hcinrich 
Circuit  Competition."  He  added:  "V\^e  can't  decently 
blink  their  progress  in  military  aviation.  It's  one  o'  them 
there  fax  which  the  brass-hats  at  the  War  Office  pretend 


50  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

to  regard  as  all  my  eye.  Yet  they  know  the  Fatherland— 
or  if  they  don't  they  oughter!  Good-lookin'  chap  this. 
Not  over  thirty,  I  should  guess  him.  Always  dodging  in 
and  out  of  the  German  Embassy.  The  Goblin  frightful 
nuts  on  him.  .  .  .  Goin'  to  steer  him  through  the  next 
London  Season — suppose  he's  lookin'  out  for  a  moneyed 
wife!" 

"Hope  ne  gets  her ! "  Franky  mentally  commented.  But 
he  looked  with  new  interest  at  his  big  blond  German  neigh- 
bour, mentally  calculating  that  with  all  that  bone,  brawn, 
and  muscle,  von  Herrnung  couldn't  tip  the  scale  at  less  than 
sixteen  stone. 

Small-boned  himself  and  of  stature  not  above  the  medium, 
Franky  appreciated  height  and  size  in  other  men.  And 
von  Herrnung  was  undeniably  a  son  of  Anak.  The  noise- 
less, demure  waiters  who  paused  beside  his  chair  to  refill  his 
glass  or  offer  him  dishes  were  dwarfed  by  his  seated  presence 
to  the  proportions  of  little  boys. 

Once,  when  there  was  a  momentary  bustle  at  the  principal 
entrance  to  the  now  crowded  restaurant,  and  a  party  of  men, 
ceremoniously  ushered  by  M.  Spitz  in  person,  passed  up 
the  central  gangway  between  the  rows  of  glittering  tables, 
shielded  by  glass-panelled  screens  framed  in  oxidised  silver, 
and  crowded  now  with  gossiping,  laughing,  gobbling  patrons 
— ^men  and  women  of  varied  nationalities,  representing  the 
elite  of  the  fashionable  world,  von  Herrnung  rose  and  re- 
mained imperturbably  standing  at  the  salute,  his  eyes  set 
and  fixed,  his  head  turned  rigidly  towards  the  personage, 
semi-bald,  stout,  with  a  prominent  underjaw  and  a  hard 
official  stare  rendered  glassier  by  a  frameless  square  mon- 
ocle, and  showing  beneath  the  open  front  of  a  loose  military 
mantle  a  star  upon  the  left  side  of  his  evening  dress-coat, 
and  the  glitter  of  an  Order  suspended  from  a  yellow  riband 
about  his  thick  bull-neck. 

"The  German  Ambassador,  Baron  von  Giesnau,"  Lady 
Wathe  returned  to  a  question  from  Lady  Beauvayse,  as  the 


Sir  Thomas  Entertains  51 

portly  official  figure  creaked  by,  leaving  a  whifE  of  choice 
cigars  and  a  taint  of  parfum  tres  persistant,  lifting  three 
fingers  of  a  white-gloved  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  his 
countryman's  salute,  and  von  Hcrrnung  unstiffened  and 
dropped  back  into  his  chair.  "No!  .  .  .  I'm  not  sure 
where  the  Emperor  is.  .  .  .  "  She  added,  with  one  of  her 
laughs  and  a  shrug  of  her  thin  vivacious  shoulders;  "Ask 
Count  von  Herrnung — he's  sure  to  know!" 

"Gnddige  Grdfin,"  von  Herrnung  returned  when  inter- 
rogated, "I  am  not  able  to  answer  your  question."  He 
shrugged  his  broad  shoulders  and  showed  his  white  teeth. 
"  Unser  Kaiser  is — who  shall  say  where?  At  the  Hof  .  .  , 
possibly  at  Homburg.  .  .  .  Stop!  .  .  .  Now  I  remember! 
Seine  Majestat'is,  ^t  Kiel.  .  .  ."  He  continued,  arranging 
with  a  big  white  hand  displaying  a  preposterously  long 
thumb-nail  a  corner  of  his  glittering,  tightly  rolled  mous- 
tache: "At  Kiel  .  .  .  ach,  yes!  he  has  been  there  since  the 
25th  of  June.  Entertaining  the  British  and  American  Am- 
bassadors, visiting  the  Commander-in-Chief  of  your  British 
Squadron,  superintending  the  armament  of  one  of  our  own 
new  battle-cruisers, — seeing  put  into  her  those  great  big 
Krupp  guns  that  are  to  sink  your  super-Dreadnoughts  by- 
and-by!" 

The  deliberately-uttered  words  of  the  last  sentence 
dropped  into  a  little  pool  of  chilly  silence.  He  had  spoken 
with  perfect  gravity,  and  the  Englishmen  who  heard  him 
stared  before  they  grinned.  Then  the  women  shrieked  in 
ecstasies  of  amusement — the  Goblin's  laugh  overtopping 
all. 

"For  he  hates  us!  .  .  .  You  can't  think  how  he  hates 
us!  .  .  .  "  she  crowed,  writhing  her  lean  little  throat, 
clasped  by  seven  rows  of  shimmering  stones,  wagging  her 
Kobold's  head,  crowned  by  its  diadem  of  multi-coloured 
fire.  "Tell  us  how  you  hate  us,  Tido!  .  .  .  Do — pray 
do!" 

" I  hate  you,  ach  yes!   .    .    .     All  German  officers  are  like 


52  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

that — particularly  the  officers  of  our  Field  Flying  Service, " 
gravely  corroborated  von  Herrnung.  "We  have  many 
pleasant  acquaintanceships  with  men  and  women  of  British 
nationality,  but  your  race — the  Anglo-Saxon  branch  of  the 
great  Teutonic  oak-tree,  it  is  natural  that  we  should  hate  I 
For  that  Germany  must  expand  upon  the  west  and  north- 
west as  well  as  south  and  east,  or  suffocate,  is  certain.  She 
must  wield  the  trident  of  Sea  Power;  she  must  transform  the 
map  of  Europe.  She  must  exploit  and  disseminate  German 
trade  and  German  Kultur;  therefore,  as  the  British,  more 
than  any  other  nation,  stands  in  the  way  of  German  develop- 
ment, we  look  forward  to  the  Day  when  we  shall  extermin- 
ate you  and  take  our  right  position  as  masters  of  the  world ! " 

The  women  screamed  anew  at  this.  The  men  were  now 
laughing  in  good  earnest.  Franlcy  found  it  impossible  to 
restrain  the  convulsions  that  shook  him  in  his  chair.  Purple- 
faced  Brayham  tried  to  speak,  but  broke  down  wheezing  and 
spkittering.     The  Goblin  shrilled : 

"Tell  them,  Tido.  .  .  .  Please  tell  them!  ...  Do 
— ha!  ha!  tell  them  how  you're  spoiling  for  a  scrimmage 
with  us !     Show  them  your  thumb-nail,  pray  do ! " 

Thus  adjured,  the  big  German  solemnly  extended  his 
left  hand  for  general  inspection.  The  pointed,  carefully- 
manicured  thumb-nail  was  at  least  two  inches  long.  Its 
owner  said  with  perfect  gravity : 

"  This  is  the  badge  of  a  Society  of  England-haters,  chiefly 
Prussian  military  officers,  young  men  of  noble  birth,  bound 
by  an  oath  of  blood.  This  mark  we  carry  to  distinguish  us. 
It  is  a  sign  of  our  dedication,  to  remind  us  of  the  purpose 
for  which  we  are  set  apart."  He  added:  "Count  Zeppelin 
himself  set  the  fashion  of  the  uncut  thumb-nail.  It  will  be 
cut  when  the  Day  comes,  and  it  has  been  dipped  in  blood!" 

"In  blood — how  beastly!"  said  the  Saxham  girl,  curling 
the  corners  of  her  wide  red  mouth  contemptuously.  ' '  What 
a  horrid  crowd  your  noble  young  Prussian  officers  must  be  I 
And  when  is  the  dipping  to  come  off  ? "     Her  voice  was  deep 


Sir  Thomas  Entertains  53 

and  resonant  as  a  masculine  baritone,  and  of  so  carrying  a 
quality  that  Franky  started  as  though  the  words  had  been 
spoken  at  his  ear. 

"Gnddige  Frdulein,''  von  Herrnung  answered,  "I  have 
already  told  you.  When  the  Day  comes  for  which  we  are 
preparing.  When  the  great  German  nation  shall  abandon 
Christianity — cast  off  the  rusty  fetters  of  Morality  and 
Virtue — call  on  the  Ancient  God  of  Battles — and  beat  out 
the  iron  sceptre  of  World  Power  with  sword -blows  upon  the 
anvil  of  War. ' ' 

"When  we're  all  to  be  exterminated,  he  means!"  Lady 
Wathe  gasped  behind  her  filmy  handkerchief.  "Tido, 
you're  too  absolutely  screaming!  Do  saj'  why  your  noble 
young  Prussians  keep  us  waiting?  .  .  .  "  And  von  Herr- 
nung answered  composedly: 

"Because  we  are  not  yet  ready.  Wc  shall  not  be  per- 
fectly ready  before  the  spring  of  1916. " 

His  hard,  bright  glance  encountered  Franky's,  and  he 
lifted  his  full  glass  of  champagne  and  drank  to  him,  smiling 
pleasantly. 

Of  course  the  German  was  rotting,  reflected  Franky.  If 
he  wasn't,  the  combined  insolence  and  brutality  of  such  a 
menace,  uttered  at  the  table  of  one  of  the  Britons  in  whose 
gore  von  Herrnung  and  his  comrades  yearned  to  dip  their 
preposterous  two-inch  thumb-nails,  took  the  bun,  by  the 
Great  Brass  Hat!  He  was  perfectly  cool,  as  his  muscular 
white  hands — for  the  dinner  had  amved  at  the  dessert  stage 
— manipulated  the  silver  knife  that  peeled  a  blood-red  necta- 
rine. What  a  splendid  ring,  a  black-and-white  pearl,  large 
as  a  starling's  egg,  and  set  in  platinum,  the  fellow  sported 
on  the  little  finger  of  that  clawed  left  hand.  What  was  he 
asking,  in  the  suave  voice  with  the  gttttural  Teutonic 
accent  ? 

"You  were  in  the  Bois,  I  believe.  Lord  Norwater,  early 
in  the  midday.  Did  3'ou  see  any  avians  of  the  Service 
Acro77aiUique  ?     Did  the  invention  they  were  testing  come 


54  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

up  to  expectations?  .  .  .  Did  the  English  aerial  stabiliser 
answer  well?   .    .    .  " 

Franky  knew,  as  he  encountered  the  compelling  stare  or 
the  hard  blue  eyes,  that  he  objected  to  their  owner.  He 
returned,  in  a  tone  more  huffy  and  less  dignified  than  he 
would  have  liked  it  to  be : 

"Can't  say.  ...  I  was  merely  walking  in  the  Bois 
with  a  lady.  Wasn't  on  the  ground  as — an  investigator  of 
the  professional  sort. " 

"So!"  Yon  Herrnung's  face  was  set  in  a  smile  of  easy 
amiability.  The  shot  might  have  missed  the  bull  for  any- 
thing that  was  betrayed  there.  "And  the  name  of  the 
inventor  ?  It  has  escaped  my  memory.  Possibly  3'ou  could 
tell  me,  eh?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Frank3^  planting  one  with  pleastire. 
"He  happens  to  be  a  cousin  of  mine.  Would  vou  like  me 
to  write  down  his  address?" 

"Gewiss — thanks  so  very  much.  But  I  will  not  trouble 
you!" 

Nobody  had  heard  the  verbal  encounter.  Lady  Wathe 
was  holding  the  table  with  another  anecdote  punctuated 
with  staccato  peals  of  laughter,  tinkling  like  the  brazen  bells 
of  a  beaten  tambourine.  Mademoiselle  Nou-Nou,  a  Paris 
celebrity,  belonging  to  the  most  ancient  if  not  the  most 
venerable  of  professions,  had  promenaded  under  the  chest- 
nuts at  Longchamps  that  morning,  attired,  as  to  the  upper 
portion  of  her  body,  in  a  sheath  of  spotted  black  gauze  veil- 
ing, unlined — save  with  her  own  charms.  And  a  witty 
Paris  journalist  had  said  that  "the  costtmie  was  designed  to 
represent  Eve,  not  before  nor  after,  but  behind  the  fall"; 
and  Paillette,  who  was  there,  working  up  her  "Modes" 
letter  for  Le  Style,  had  answered 

Everybody  at  table  was  leaning  forward  and  listening,  as 
the  Goblin  quoted  the  riposte  of  Paillette. 

Von  Herrnung,  showing  his  big  white  teeth  in  a  smile, 
chose  another  nectarine  from  the  piled-up  dish  before  him, 


Sir  Thomas  Entertains  55 

seeming  to  admire  the  contrast  between  his  own  muscular 
white  fingers  and  the  glowing  fruit  they  held.  But  Franky 
saw  that  he  was  angry  as  he  neatly  peeled  the  fruit,  split  the 
odorous  yellow  flesh,  tore  the  stone  out  crimson  and  drip- 
ping like  a  little  human  heart,  and  swallowed  both  halves  of 
the  fruit  in  rapid  succession,  dabbing  his  mouth  with  the 
fine  serviette  'held  up  before  him  in  both  hands.  Then, 
with  an  air  of  arrogant  self-confidence  peculiar  to  him,  he 
said  loudly,  addressing  the  whole  company: 

"Madame  Paillette  certainly  deserves  the  Croix  d'Hon- 
neur  for  so  excellent  a  hon-mot.  As  for  Mademoiselle  Nou- 
Kou,  I  do  not  myself  admire  her,  but  my  brother  Ludwig, 
when  he  was  alive,  paid  intermittent  tribute  to  her  charms.  " 
He  added:  "He  was  killed  in  the  charge  by  a  fall  with  his 
horse  in  the  Autumn  Manoeuvres  of  last  year,  while  the 
Emperor  was  being  entertained  by  command  at  a  shooting- 
party  upon  a  forest  property  of  my  father's  that  is  about 
fifty  kilometres  from  Berlin.  " 


CHAPTER   X 


A    SUPERMAN 


"Do  tell  what  the  Kaiser  said  when  he  heard  of  the  acci- 
dent!" came  in  the  voice  of  Lady  Beauvayse,  pitched  now 
in  a  high,  nasal  tone  that  was  a  danger-signal  to  those  who 
knew  her,  like  the  mischievous  twinkle  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 
"  I  guess  he  must  have  been  real  upset! " 

"/o,  ja,  ^ewiss,"  returned  von  Herrnung,  slightly  shrug- 
ging his  broad,  square  shoulders.  "Of  course  the  Emperor 
was  greatly  grieved  for  my  father's  loss.  But  naturally  the 
programme  had  to  be  carried  out.  There  is  another  day's 
Imperial  shooting;  the  business  is  concluded — very  satis- 
factorily— and  Seine  Majestdt  takes  leave But  of 

course  he  sent  to  my  mother  a  sympathetic  message,  v/hich 
greatly  consoled  her.  And  his  Chief  Equerry,  Baron  von 
Wildenberg,  represented  him  at  my  brother's  funeral.  And 
shortly  afterwards  he  graciously  conferred  upon  my  father 
the  Second  Class  of  the  Order  Pour  le  Merite. " 

"How  nice!  But  what  for?"  demanded  the  downright 
American,  with  astonishment  so  genuine  that  Brayham 
strangled  with  suppressed  chuckles,  and  the  bearded 
mouth  of  Commander  Courtley  assiuned  the  curve  of  a  sly 
smile. 

"What  for?"  exclaimed  von  Herrnung.  He  stiffened  his 
big  body  arrogantly,  reddening  with  evident  annoyance,  and 
thickly  through  his  carefully-accentuated  English  the  Teu- 
tonic consonants  and  gutturals  began  to  crop.  "Gnddiie 
Grdfin,  because  that  so  coveted  decoration  is  the  reward  of 
special  service  rendered  to  the  Emperor.  And  my  father 
in  his-personal-sorrow-conquering  that  it  upon  the  amuse- 
ments   of    Imperial    Majesty-might-not-intrude — had    the 

56 


A  Superman  57 

noblest  devotion  and  courage  exhibited — in  the  opinion  of 
the  All-Highest. " 

"My  land!"  exclaimed  Lady  Beaiivayse,  stimulated  by 
the  undisguised  enjoyment  of  Brayham,  Courtley,  and 
Franky,  "if  that  don't  take  the  team  and  waggon,  with  the 
yella  dog  underneath  it,  an'  the  hoss-fly  sittin'  on  the  near- 
wheel  mule's  left  ear!"  She  added:  "No  wonder  your 
Kaiser  thinks  himself  the  hub  of  this  little  old  universe — 
being  nourished  from  infancy  on  flapdoodle  of  that  kind." 
She  added,  dropping  the  saw-edged  artificial  accent,  and  re- 
verting to  the  agreeable,  drawling  tones  familiar  to  her 
friends:  "But,  last  fall,  when  King  George  and  Queen 
Mary  were  allowing  to  spend  the  day  with  us  at  Foltlebarre 
Abbey,  and  see  the  Gobelins  tapestries  after  Tenicrs  that 
were  restored  by  our  great  American  dye-specialist,  Char- 
lotte B.  Pendrill  of  New  York — and  I  had  a  dud  head  with 
ncuralgitis,  and  couldn't  have  bobbed  a  curtsey  without 
screaming  like  peacocks  before  a  wet  spell — Lord  Beauvayse 
just  sent  a  respectful  note  of  excuse  over  by  fast  car  to  the 
place  in  our  county  where  their  Majesties  were  spending  a 
week-end,  and  got  a  kind,  cosy  little  line  by  return,  making 
an  appointment  for  a  more  convenient  day. " 

"Es  mag  wohl  sein,"  said  von  Herrnung  stiffly,  repeating 
an  apparently  favourite  phrase.  "It  may  be  so — in  Great 
Britain.  But  in  Germany  the  trivial  happenings  of  ordin- 
ary existence  are  not  permitted  to  interfere  with  the  Im- 
perial plans." 

"Mustn't  spoil  Great  Ccesar's  shoot  by  letting  a  natural 
sorrow  dim  your  eye,  in  case  you're  unexpectedly  informed 
of  a  family  bereavement,"  said  Brayham  to  Lady  Beau- 
vayse. "So  now  you  know  what  to  expect  in  case  the 
Kaiser  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  pop  in  on  you  at 
Foltlebarre  somewhere  about  July." 

"I  surmise  I'd  expect  a  visitor  of  mine,  whether  he's  the 
Kaiser,  the  King,  or  the  President,"  retorted  Lady  Beau- 
vayse, "to  be  a  gentleman!"     Her  beautiful  eyes  blazed 


58  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

with  genuine  ire  as  she  gave  back  von  Herrnung's  dominat- 
ing stare.  She  continued,  reverting  more  purposefully  than 
ever  to  the  exaggerated  New  York  accent,  mingling  cutting 
Yankee  himiour  with  bitter  irony  in  the  sentences  that 
twanged,  one  after  another,  off  her  sharp  American  tongue: 
"And  I  guess,  Count  von  Herrnung — though  between  your 
father  and  Amos  J.  Sculpin  of  Madison  Avenue,  New  York, 
and  Sculpin  Towers,  Schenectady,  there's  considerable  of  a 
social  gulf — if  your  Emperor  had  been  a  house-guest  of  my 
parpa's,  and  my  elder  brother" — she  lifted  an  exquisite 
shoulder  significantly  ceilingwards — "had  happened  to  get 
the  hoist — parpa'd  just  have  said:  'Your  Imperial  Majesty, 
I  am  unexpectedly  one  boy  short,  and  far  from  feeling  hun- 
key.  My  cars  are  waiting  at  my  door  to  convey  you  right- 
away  to  your  hotel.  Look  in  on  us  after  the  interment,  when 
Mrs.  Sculpin  has  had  time  to  get  accustomed  to  her  mourn- 
ing. And  as  my  chef  had  orders  to  serve  a  special  dinner  in 
honour  of  your  Majesty,  I  shall  be  gratified  by  your  taking 
the  hull  menoo  along — outside  instead  of  in!'" 

The  Goblin  cackled.     Ecstatic  Brayham  shrieked: 

"Magnificent,  by  Gad!  He  ought  to  know  your  father  I " 
Franky  and  Courtley  yielded  unrestrainedly  to  mirth,  as  did 
the  Saxham  girl.  While  her  teeth,  dazzling  as  those  of  a 
Newfoundland  pup,  gleamed  in  her  wide  red  mouth,  and 
her  long  eyes  glittered  between  their  narrowed  eyelids,  von 
Herrnung  gave  her  a  quick  sidelong  glance  of  anger.  She 
caught  the  look,  and  suddenly  ceased  to  laugh,  as  the  young 
Newfoundland  might  have  stopped  barking.  She  said  be- 
low her  breath : 

"Vexed?  .  .  .  Why,  you're  really!  .  .  .  And  Lady 
Beau  wasn't  joking  about  your  brother.  .  .  .  She  wouldn't 
dream  of  such  a  thing!  ....  She's  tremendously  kind 
and  sympathetic.     Was  he — your  brother — nice?   ..." 

"  Most  women  thought  so. " 

"Would  I  have  thought  so?  What  was  he  like?"  the 
girl  persisted. 


A  Superman  59 

Von  Hermung  turned  in  his  chair  so  as  to  face  her,  an- 
swering : 

' '  You  see  him  now,  with  one  difference.  He  was  as  black 
as  I  am  red." 

The  blue  eyes  of  the  man  and  the  long  agate-coloured  eyes 
of  the  young  woman  encountered.  She  said  slowly  in  her 
warm,  deep  voice,  less  like  a  feminine  contralto  than  the 
masculine  baritone : 

"  I  like— red  men— best!" 

"  So!  Then  it  was  lucky  that,  instead  of  me,  my  brother 
Ludwig  died!"  said  von  Herrnung,  so  loudly  that  Lady 
Wathe's  quick  ear  caught  the  final  words.  She  shrilled 
out  her  laugh : 

"But  you're  a  wretch,  Tido!"  She  shrugged  her  thin 
vivacious  shoulders  under  their  glittering  burden.  "A 
heartless  wretch ! ' ' 

"Of  course  I  was  regretting  my  brother,  yes!"  said  von 
Herrnung.  "But  I  do  not  pretend  that  his  death  did  not 
improve  what  you  English  would  call  my  worldly  prospects. 
That  is  the  cant  of  Christianity — particularly  the  senti- 
mental Christianity  of  England.  One  world  is  not  enough 
for  your  greed  of  possession.  You  must  eat  3'our  cake  here 
and  hereafter.  But  for  the  robust  super-humanity  of 
Germany,  this  world  is  both  Hell  and  Heaven.  It  is  Hell 
for  the  man  who  is  stupid,  weakly,  poor,  and  conscience- 
ridden.  It  is  Heaven  for  the  man  who  has  knowledge, 
power,  health,  wealth,  the  craft  to  keep  his  riches,  and  the 
capacity  to  enjoy  to  the  fullest  the  pleasures  they  can  pro- 
cure him,  with  the  courage  to  free  himself  from  the  bonds 
of  what  Christians  and  Agnostics  term  Morality,  and  livQ 
precisely  as  Nature  prompts.  So  when  my  brother  fell  in 
the  charge,"  continued  von  Herrnung,  with  perfect  serious- 
ness, "he  opened  for  me  the  gates  of  Heaven.  Since  then 
I  am  a  god!" 

"A  mortal  god,"  called  out  the  chuckling  Bray  ham;  "for 
you've  got  to  die,  you  know,  when  your  number's  up. " 


6o  That  Which  Hath  Winers 

o 

"When  the  time  comes,  of  cotirse  I  shall  die, "  acquiesced 
von  Herrnung,  "in  the  vulgar  sense  of  the  word.  But  not 
so  those  who  come  after.  Our  bacteriologists  will  have 
discovered  the  microbe  of  old  age  and  its  antitoxin,  and  then 
we  shall  die  no  more." 

"Dashed  if  I  know  the  difference  between  the  vulgar  way 
of  dying  and  the  other  style!"  Brayham  snorted  apoplecti- 
cally,  feeling  in  his  waistcoat-pocket  for  the  box  of  digestive 
tabloids  that  showed  in  a  bulge.  "Dashed  unpleasant 
certainty — however  you  look  at  it !  And  a  man  who  weighs 
eighteen  stone  at  fifty  has  got  to  look  at  it,  every  time  his 
tailor  lets  out  his  waistcoats,  and  his  valet  asks  him  to  order 
more  collars  because  the  last  lot  have  shrunk  in  the  wash. " 

"Ah,  yes,  to  die  is  a  hellish  bore!"  agreed  von  Herrnung, 
contemplating  his  obese  and  purple  host  with  a  cruel  smile. 
"But  I  and  my  friends  have  no  Hell,  and  we  have  done  away 
with  the  myth  of  Heaven.  To  dissolve  and  be  reabsorbed 
into  the  elements  — that  is  the  only  after-life  that  is  possible 
for  a  Superman. " 

"You'd  hardly  call  it  Life,  would  you? "  came  unwillingly 
from  Franky.  For  von  Herrnung's  eyes  seemed  to  challenge 
his  own. 

Imperial  Cccsar,  dead  aitd  turned  to  day, '  what? "  quoted 
Courtley,  to  whom  von  Herrnung  transferred  his  smiling 
regard. 

* '  I  venture  to  hope  that  my  clay  may  serve  a  more  pa- 
triotic purpose  than  stopping  a  draught-hole,"  said  the 
German,  carefully  fingering  the  tight  roll  of  glittering  red 
hair  upon  his  upper-lip.  ' '  It  may  be  baked  into  a  sparking- 
plug  for  the  aero-motor  of  one  of  our  Zeppelin  dirigibles — 
the  mysterious  Z.  X.,  for  instance,  in  whose  trial  trip  from 
Stettin  across  the  Baltic  to  Upsala  in  Sweden  you  were  so 
keenly  interested  some  months  ago.  Or  some  of  my  body's 
chemical  constituents  may  pass  into  the  young  tree  beneath 
which  my  ashes  will  be  deposited.  If  beech  or  spruce,  then 
I  may  furnish  ribs  or  struts  for  an  Aviatik  or  a  Taube.     But 


A  Superman  6r 

the  best  way  of  continuing  to  exist  after  one  is  dead  is  to 
leave  plenty  of  vigorous  sons  behind  one.  To  perpetuate 
the  race" — he  continued  speaking  to  Lord  Norwater, 
who  had  flushed  and  moved  restlessly — "that  is  the  high  ' 
and  noble  obligation  Duty  imposes  upon  the  German. 
Superman." 

"You'll  have  to  hurry  up  your  matrimonial  arrangements, 
Tido, "  interposed  the  Goblin,  with  her  cackle,  "if  your 
family  is  to  tot  up  to  a  respectable  number  before  the  year 
1916." 

"You  mean  that  I  may  get  killed  in  our  great  War  of 
Extermination?  That  is  possible,"  agreed  von  Hcrrnung. 
"Our  Flying  Service  is  not  a  profession  conducive  to  long 
life.  Many  of  our  keenest  officers  remain  unmarried  for 
that  reason.  The  Emperor  would  prefer  each  of  us  to 
marry,  or  at  least  adopt  a  son.  For  myself,  I  would  like  to 
steal  one  of  your  splendid  British  boys  and  rear  him  up  as 
a  true  German " 

Something  sharp  and  keen  and  burning  stabbed  through 
Franky's  brain  to  his  vitals.  It  would  have  been  a  relief  to 
have  insulted  von  Herrnung.  He  set  his  teeth,  fighting  with 
the  desire,  as  the  guttural  voice  went  on: 

"I  would  teach  him  to  hate  you.  ..."  The  speaker 
sucked  in  his  breath  as  though  he  relished  the  idea  exceed- 
ingly. "You  cannot  think  how  he  would  hate  you! — my 
German-British  Superman." 

"By-the-by,  the  literary  genius  of  Dreadnought  type  who 
invented  the  Superman,"  began  Courtley,  who  had  been 
peaceably  nibbling  salted  pistachios,  "can't  pronounce  his 
name  for  ginger-nuts,  but  it  sounds  something  like  a. 
sneeze " 

Von  Herrnung  said  stiffly: 

"You  doubtless  speak  of  our  great  Nietzsche,  whose 
triumphant  thought  has  crushed  all  other  mental  systems. " 

"Quite  so.  Must  be  the  chap !"  said  Courtley.  "That 
is,  if  he  died  a  lunatic.    .    ,    .      But  possibly  I'm  mixing; 


62  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

him  up  with  some  other  philosopher  of  the  crushing 
kind?" 

" No,  no.  It  is  true, "  corroborated  von  Herrnung.  "The 
"brain  of  Nietzsche  gave  way  under  the  terriffic  strain  of  in- 
cessant creation.  How  should  it  be  otherwise?"  He  be- 
came ponderous,  even  solemn,  when  he  descanted  upon  the 
literary  idol  of  Modern  Germany.  "How  should  it  indeed 
be  otherwise?"  he  demanded.  "And  was  it  not  the  fitting 
crown  of  such  a  career — the  appropriate  end  to  such  a  life- 
work? — to  evolve  the  Superman — and  die!" 

"Quite  so,  quite  so!"  Courtley  agreed.  He  smoothed  his 
well-trimmed  beard  with  his  broad  hand,  and  his  eyes  as- 
sumed a  meditative  expression.  "Rather  tantalising — al- 
ways hearing  about  Germany's  Supermen  and  never  seeing 
any.  What  sort  of  chaps  are  they?  I'm  really  keen  to 
know." 

"You  have  not  to  go  far, "  returned  von  Herrnung.  His 
fine  florid  complexion  had  suffered  a  deteriorating  change. 
Savage  anger  boiled  in  his  blood.  He  had  thrown  the  iron 
gauntlet  of  German  military  preparedness  in  the  faces  of 
these  cool,  well-bred,  smiling  English,  and  brandished  the 
iron  thunderbolt  of  German  intellectual  supremacy — and 
with  this  result — that  they  took  his  deadly  earnestness  as 
jest.  "  Kreutzdon?ierwetter  !  these  English  officers.  .  .  .  The 
pig-dogs!  the  sheep's  heads!  .  .  .  "  He  swallowed  down 
the  abusive  epithets  he  would  have  liked  to  pitch  at  them, 
and  stiffened  his  huge  frame  arrogantly  as  he  stared  in 
Courtley's  simple  face : 

"Aber — you  have  not  far  to  go,  to  visualise  the  type 
conceived  by  Nietzsche.  I  and  my  comrades — we  are 
Supermen!" 

"Thanks  for  explaining,  frightfully!"  said  Courtley  with 
artless  gratitude,  as  Brayham  purpled  apoplectically  and 
even  the  Goblin  tittered  behind  her  fan.  "Shall  know  what 
to  ticket  you  now,  you  know.     Thanks  very  much ! " 

"You  have  read  Nietzsche?"  the  sailor's  victim  queried. 


A  Superman  63 

Said  Courtley,  with  his  best  air  of  frank  simplicity : 

"His  works  were  recommended  to  me  by  my  doctor, 
when  I  had  a  bad  attack  of  insomnia,  about  a  year  ago. 
Ordered  a  volume  of  '  Thus  Spake  Zara  Somebody. '  Half  a 
chapter  did  the  business.  No  insomnia  since  then.  Sleep 
like  a  mite  in  a  Gorgonzola,  the  instant  my  head  touches  the 
pillow — never  read  another  word.  But  heaps  of  friends  in 
the  Fleet '11  be  wanting  to  borrow  the  book  presently,  depend 
on  it.  For  we'll  all  be  too  scared  of  Germany  to  sleep — in 
the  year  191 6." 

Laughter  broke  forth.  Lady  Wathe  gasped,  dabbing  her 
tearful  eyes  with  a  lace-bordered  handkerchief: 

"Oh,  Tido!  will  you  dead-in-earnest  Germans  never  learn 
what  pulling  a  leg  means?" 

"Ach  ja!  I  should  have  understood!"  He  had  stared, 
frowned,  and  reddened  savagely.  Now,  with  a  palpable 
effort,  his  equanimity  was  regained.  He  turned  with  a 
smiling  remark  to  Patrine  Saxham,  as  Lady  Beauvayse 
breathed  in  Courtley 's  ear: 

"You  perfect  pet'     How  I  love  you  for  that!" 

"  Man  simply  suffering  for  a  set-down.  Good  egg,  you !  '^ 
murmured  Franky  in  the  other  ear  of  the  Commander. 

"Felt  sorry  for  him.  Had  to  do  something — common 
humanity!"  rejoined  Courtley,  eating  more  and  more  pis- 
tachios. "Seems  as  over-crammed  with  their  KuUiir  as  a 
pet  garden-titmouse  with  coco-nut.  Vain  too,  but  that's 
the  fault  of  the  women.  Lord!  how  they  gush  at  those  big, 
good-looking  blighters.  See  the  Saxham! — ready  to  climb 
into  his  waistcoat-pocket  and  stop  there.  Would,  too,  if 
she  wasn't  built  on  Dreadnought  lines  herself." 

She  was  laughing  into  von  Herrnung's  smiling  visage  as- 
he  offered  her  a  light  from  his  cigar.  For  with  the  arrival  of 
coffee  and  liqueurs,  the  fragrance  of  choice  Havana  and 
Turkish  had  begun  to  mingle  with  the  tang  of  Mocha,  the 
heady  bouquet  of  choice  wines,  and  the  odours  of  fruit  and 
flowers.     The  screens  of  frosted  glass  were  rearranged, — 


64  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  ladies  had  produced  their  cigarette-cases, — of  gold 
with  the  monogram  of  the  Goblin  set  in  diamonds;  of 
platinum  adorned  with  turquoises  and  pearls  wrought  in- 
to the  Beauvayse  initial  and  coronet;  and  of  himibler 
tortoiseshell,  bearing  in  fanciful  golden  letters  the  name 
"Patrine" 

"Patrinc  ..." 

"The  Saxham  girl"  had  taken  the  tortoiseshell  cigarette- 
case  from  the  front  of  her  low-cut,  sleeveless  bodice.  Von 
Herrnung  had  leaned  towards  her,  boldly  exploring  with  his 
eyes  the  bosom  where  the  trinket  had  been  hiding,  and  read 
the  golden  letters.  He  smiled  as  he  met  her  puzzled  eyes, 
sajdng : 

"  '  Patrine'  is  your  name.  .  .  .  Now  I  know  it  I  will  not 
forget  it !  Tell  me ! " — he  spoke  in  lowered  tones — "why  do 
you  carry  your  cigarette-case  just  in  that  place?" 

She  laughed,  half-shutting  her  long  eyes  and  slightly 
lifting  her  big  white  shoulders.  "  Simply  for  convenience — 
when  I'm  in  evening  kit.  Dressmalcers  don't  allow  us  poor 
women  pockets  in  these  days. " 

"It  may  be  so!"  As  von  Herrnung  spoke  with  a  cal- 
culated roughness  that  he  had  found  useful  in  dealing  with 
many  women,  he  took  the  cigarette-case  from  her,  momen- 
tarily covering  her  hand  with  his  own.  As  his  curving 
fingers  touched  her  palm,  he  felt  the  soft  warm  flesh  wince 
at  the  contact.  Her  black  brows  drew  together,  her  sleepy 
agate  eyes  shot  him  a  hostile  sidewise  glance. 

"I  have  not  offended?"  he  whispered  in  some  anxiety. 
And  she  answered  in  a  louder  tone,  under  cover  of  the  talk, 
and  laughter  of  the  others: 

"No!  .  .  .     Only— I  hate  to  be  touched,   that's   all." 

He  smiled  under  the  crisp  tight  roll  of  his  red  moustache, 
and  his  large,  well-cut  nostrils  dilated  and  quivered. 

"  One  day  you  will  not  hate  it.  I  will  wait  for  that  day. 
But — about  your  cigarette-case — you  do  not  now  tell  me  the 
truth!  .  .  .     The  real  reason  is  more  subtle.     You  carry 


A  Superman  65 

that  thing  there — under  your  corsage — to  make  live  men 
envious  of  an  object  that  cannot  feel!" 

"Really!  .  .  .  What  a  lot  you  must  know  about 
women!" 

The  words  were  mocking,  but  the  voice  that  uttered 
them  was  big,  warm,  and  velvety.  Far  above  the  ordinary 
stature  of  womanhood — you  remember  that  Franky  re- 
garded her  as  a  great  galumphing  creature — her  head 
would  yet  have  been  much  below  the  level  of  von  Herr- 
nung's,  but  for  the  height  of  the  extraordinary  diadem  or 
turban  that  crowned  her  masses  of  dull  cloudy-black  hair. 
Folds  of  vivid  emerald-green  satin  rose  above  a  wide  band 
of  theatrical  gilt  tinsel,  set  with  blazing  stage  rubies,  and 
above  the  centre  of  the  wearer's  low,  wide  brow  a  fan-shaped 
panache  of  clipped  white  ospreys  sprang,  boldly  challenging 
the  eye.  Thrown  with  royal  prodigality  upon  the  back  of 
the  chair  she  occupied  was  an  opera-mantle  of  cotton- 
backed  emerald-green  velvet  lavishly  furred  with  ermine 
and  sables  that  were  palpably  false  as  the  garish  gold  and 
jewels  of  the  diadem  that  crowned  her,  yet  became  her  big, 
bold,  rather  brazen  beauty  as  well  as  though  the  vSiberian 
weasel  and  the  Arctic  marten  had  been  trapped  and  slain 
to  deck  and  adorn  her,  instead  of  the  white  rabbit  of  ordin- 
ary commerce  and  the  domestic  pussy-cat. 

5 


CHAPTER  XI 


PATRINE  SAXHAM 


Who  was  the  girl — the  woman  rather — who  diffused 
around  her  so  powerfiil  a  magnetic  aura,  whom  prodigal 
Nature  had  dowered  with  such  opulence  of  bodily  splendour, 
that  cheap,  tawdry  clothes  and  ornaments  borrowed  from 
her  a  magnificence  that  conjured  up  visions  of  the  Sa- 
lammbo  of  Flaubert,  gleaming  moon-like  through  her  gold 
and  purple  tissues — of  Anatole  France's  Queen  of  Sheba 
treading  the  lapis-lazuli  and  sardonyx  pavements  of  King 
Solomon's  palace  in  her  jewelled  sandals  of  gilded  serpent- 
skin,  darting  fiery  provocations  from  under  the  shadow 
of  her  painted  lashes  towards  the  Wise  One  rising  from  his 
cushions  of  purple  byssus,  between  the  golden  lions  of  his 
ivory  throne? 

What  a  voice  the  creature  had!  thought  von  Herr- 
nung.  Soft  and  velvety  like  that  dead-white  skin  of  hers. 
The  tortoiseshell  case  he  held  in  his  big  palm  still  glowed 
with  the  rich  vital  warmth  of  her.  His  blood  tingled  and 
raced  in  his  veins;  his  hard,  brilliant  stare  grew  languorous, 
and  his  mouth  relaxed  into  sensuousness.  He  said  almost 
stupidly,  so  keen  was  his  enjoyment: 

"You  English  ladies  smoke  a  great  deal,  I  think." 

"Why  should  we  leave  all  the  pleasant  vices  to  the 
men.'^ 

She  asked  the  queer  question,  not  defiantly,  but  bluntly. 
Her  strange  eyes  laughed  a  little,  as  she  saw  Franky  wince. 
"Lord  Norwater  hates  me.  Well,  that's  about  the  limit!" 
she  told  herself.  "And  I  helped  on  his  love-affair  for  little 
Margot's sake ! "  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Lord  Norwater !  You 
were  saying  something?  .  ... " 

66 


Patriae  Saxham  67 

"You're  an  Advanced  Thinker,  aren't  you,  Miss  Sax- 
ham?  At  least,  my  wife  tells  me  so,"  Franky  began. 
"Well,  I'm  not!  But  I've  got  my  doubts  as  to  whether 
vice  is  pleasant,  for  one  thing — and  for  another,  whether 
the  general  run  of  women  in  these  days  aren't  quite  as 
vicious  as  the  men? " 

"He  wants  to  be  nasty.  .  .  .  Poor  boy,  what  have  I 
done  to  him?"  passed  through  the  brain  topped  by  the 
bizarre  diadem.  But  before  its  wearer  could  reply,  von 
Herrnung  interposed: 

"Naturally  they  are  vicious — if  they  desire  to  please 
men.  A  dash  of  vice — that  is  the  last  touch  to  perfect  an 
exquisite  woman.  It  is  the  chilli  in  the  mayonnaise,  the 
garlic  and  citron  in  the  ragoilf,  the  perfume  of  the  carnation, 
the  patch  of  rouge  that  lends  brilliance  to  the  eye,  the  bite 
in  the  kiss!  ..." 

"  The  bite  in  the  .  .  .  Great  Snipe !  what  an  expression ! " 
thought  Franky,  whose  attack  of  propriety  had  reached  the 
acute  stage.  Patrine  Saxham  repeated  slowly,  and  with 
brows  that  frowned  a  little : 

'"The  bite  in  the  kiss  \  ..." 

"  You  pretend  not  to  understand  ,  .  ."  said  the  guttural 
voice  of  von  Herrnung,  speaking  so  that  his  wine- and  cigar- 
scented  breath  stirred  the  heavy  hair  that  hid  her  small 
white  ear.  "But  you  are  wiser  than  you  would  have  me 
believe.     Are  you  not?     Tell  me ! — am  I  not  right ? " 

He  bent  closer,  and  she  broke  a  web  that  seemed  in  the 
la~st  few  moments  to  have  been  spun  about  her,  invisible, 
delicate,  strong,  making  captive  the  body  and  the  mind. 
Her  odd  agate-coloured  eyes  laughed  into  his  jeeringly.  Her 
wide  red  mouth  curved  and  split  like  a  ripe  pomegranate, 
showing  the  sharp  white  teeth  that,  backed  by  a  vigorous 
appetite  and  seconded  by  a  splendid  digestion,  had  done 
justice  to  every  course  of  Brayham's  choice  menu. 

Men  always  waxed  sentimental  or  enterprising  towards 
the  close  of  a  rattling  good  dinner.     Patrine  didn't  care,  not 


68  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

a  merry  little  hang!  They  might  say  and  look  what  they 
liked,  as  long  as  they  kept  their  hands  off.  At  a  touch,  the 
quick  revulsion  came. 

"You  are  amused.  ...  I  understand.  ..."  Von 
Herrnung  spoke  between  his  teeth,  in  a  tone  of  stifled  anger. 
"Always  to  rot;  it  is  your  English  fashion.  .  .  .  When  you 
encourage  a  man  to  make  love  to  you,  you  are  rotting. 
When  you  say  sweet  things  to  him — possibly  you  are  rotting 
too?" 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  him,  striving  to  control 
her  irresistible  laughter.  In  vain ;  it  took  her  as  a  sudden 
gale  takes  a  pennant  at  the  masthead — seized  and  shook 
her — as  von  Herrnung  could  have  shaken  her  had  they  been 
alone.  He  turned  savagely  from  her;  she  heard  him  speak 
to  Brayham,  who  responded  with  what-whattings,  his  fleshy 
hand  to  his  deafest  ear.  Von  Herrnung  repeated  his  utter- 
ance. Brayham  goggled  in  astonishment.  Courtley  mur- 
mured to  Franky : 

"Hear  what  the  blighter's  saying.  ...  No  keeping  hin\ 
down,  is  there?  .  .  .  Buoyant  as  one  of  his  own  Zeppe- 
Hns!" 

They  looked  and  listened.  Brayham's  thick  bull-neck 
was  shortening  as  his  shoulders  climbed  to  his  mottled  ears. 
They  caught  a  sound  between  a  snort  and  a  bellow.  Then 
Lady  Wathe's  diamonds  flashed  all  the  colours  of  the  rain- 
bow as  she  turned  vivaciously  to  her  friend.  .  .  .  Count 
Tido  wanted  to  propose  a  toast,  the  custom  in  dear,  senti- 
mental Germany.  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  he?  Rather  amus- 
ing.    She  begged  him  to  go  on.     Said  von  Herrnung : 

"To-night  the  laugh  goes  much  against  me.  I  have 
been  most  frightfully  rotted.  Now,  in  my  country  it  is  the 
custom  when  a  guest  has  been  made  game  of  that  those 
who  have  laughed  at  him  must  drink  a  toast  with  him — to 
show  there  is  no  ill-will. " 

"Never  heard  of  such  a  custom — and  I've  lived  in  Ger- 
many a  good  deal. " 


Patrine  Saxham  69 

This  from  Brayham.     The  German  persisted: 

"Still,  it  is  a  custom,  and  it  may  be  you  will  gratify  me? " 
He  went  on,  now  addressing  the  company  generally :  "  Here 
at  the  Spitz  they  have  a  Tokayer  that  is  very  old  and  very 
excellent.  If  I  might  order  some?  It  would  be  amusing  if 
you  would  all  join  me  in  drinking  to  The  Day !  .  .  . " 

The  speaker,  without  waiting  consent,  beckoned  to  one  of 
the  attendants.  Brayham,  his  cockatoo-crest  of  stiff  grey 
hair  erect,  stared,  as  at  a  new  and  surprising  type  of  the 
human  kind. 

But  the  words  Brayham  might  have  uttered  were  taken 
out  of  his  mouth.  A  swift  glance  had  passed  between  the 
English  Naval  officer  and  the  rather  stupid,  titled  young 
Guardsman  occupying  the  seat  left  of  von  Herrnung. 
And  while  theCcmmander  coolly  intimated  to  the  advanc- 
ing waiter  by  a  sign  that  his  services  were  not  needed,  Lord 
Norwater,  lobster-red  and  rather  flurried,  turned  to  von 
Herrnung  and  said,  not  loudly,  yet  clearly  enough  to  be 
heard  by  every  guest  at  the  table: 

"Stop!  Sorry  to  swipe  in.  Count,  but  you'd  better  not 
order  that  wine,  I  think!" 

"You  think  not?"  asked  von  Herrnung,  with  coolest 
insolence. 

"I — don't  think  so.  I'm  dead-sure!"  said  Franky,  getting 
redder.  "We  Britons  laugh  at  brag  and  bluffing,  and  the 
gassy  patriotism  shown  by  some  foreigners  we're  apt  to  call 
bad  form.  We  abuse  our  Institutions  and  rag  our  Govern- 
ments— we've  done  that  since  the  year  One — far  as  I  can 
make  out.  And  when  other  people  do  it  we  generally  sit 
tight  and  smile.  We've  no  use  for  heroics.  But  when  the 
pinch  comes — it  ain't  so  much  that  we're  loyal.  We're 
Loyalty.     We're  IT!" 

With  all  his  boggling  he  was  so  much  in  earnest,  and  with 
all  his  earnestness  so  absurdly,  quaintly  slangy,  that  the 
listeners,  men  and  women  of  British  race,  whose  blood 
warmed  to  something  in  his  face  and  utterance,  were  forced 


70  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

to  struggle  to  restrain  their  mirth.  Some  inkling  of  this 
increased  the  speaker's  confusion.  He  cast  a  drowning 
glance  at  his  bulwark  Courtley,  and  Courtley's  eye  signalled 
back  to  his,  " Good  egg !  .   .  .     Drive  on,  old  son!" 

"You're  a  foreigner  here,  of  course  ..."  Franky  pur- 
sued before  the  German  could  interrupt  him.  He  appeared 
oblivious  to  his  own  analogous  case.  Perhaps  for  the 
moment  the  Hotel  Spitz  in  the  Place  Vendome,  Paris,  and 
its  gorgeous  namesake  in  the  London  West  End,  were  con- 
fused in  his  not  too  intellectual  mind.  He  went  on :  "We're 
ready  to  make  allowances — too  rottenly  ready  sometimes. 
.  .  .  But  I  read  off  the  iddy-umpties  to  Full  Stop,  a  minute 
back.  .  .  .  Count  von  Herrnung,  when  you  ask  English 
ladies  and  Englishmen — two  of  'em  in  the  Service — to 
drink  that  toast  with  you — you  must  know  you're  putting 
your  foot  in  your  hat!" 

"Especially,"  said  Courtley,  as  Franky  collapsed,  dewy 
all  over  and  wondering  where  his  breath  had  gone  to — 
"especially  as — a  friend  of  mine  happens  to  have  heard 
that  toast  proposed  rather  recently  during  a  Staff  banquet 
at  a  military  headquarters  in  Germany.  And  the  words 
are — not — quite  exactly  flavoured  to  suit  the  British  taste. " 

"  '  To  the  Day  of  Supremacy.  On  the  Land  and  on  the  Sea, 
under  the  Sea  and  in  the  Air,  Germany  Victorious  for  ever 
and  ever!'"  said  von  Herrnung,  who  had  got  upon  his  legs, 
and  loomed  gigantic  over  the  lace-covered,  flower-decked 
table,  now  in  the  after-dinner  stage  of  untidiness,  with  its 
silver-gilt  and  crystal  dishes  of  choice  fruit  and  glittering 
bonbons  disarranged  and  ravaged,  its  plates  littered,  its 
half-emptied  wine-goblets  pushed  aside  to  make  room  for 
fragrant,  steaming  coffee-cups  in  filigree  holders,  and  tiny 
jewel-hued  glasses  of  Maraschino  Cusenier,  and  Pere  Ker- 
mann.  There  was  a  rustle,  and  a  general  scraping-back  of 
chairs.  Courtley  had  also  risen,  and  Lord  Norwater.  A 
susurration  of  excitement  had  passed  through  the  long, 
lofty,  brilliant  dining-room.     People  were  getting  up  from 


Patriae  Saxham  71 

the  tables — the  pink-and-yellow  sheets  of  Paris  Soir,  the 
late  edition  of  the  Daily  Mail,  and  another  of  the  Liberie, 
were  fluttering  from  hand  to  hand.  .  .  .  And  the  shrill 
voice  of  Lady  Wathe  was  heard. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    GATHERING    OF    THE    STORM 

"  Sit  down,  Tido !  "  said  Lady  Wathe.  "  What  is  the  matter 
with  everybody?  What  are  they  talking  about?  Tell  a 
waiter  to  get  us  a  paper!  What  do  you  say,  Sir  Thomas? 
Of  course!  Stupid  of  me  to  forget.  To-day  was  to  be  the 
oliicial  summing-up  of  the  evidence  in  the  Perdroux  Murder 
Case.  A  French  Jury  won't  guillotine  a  woman — you  said 
they  wouldn't,  Sir  Thomas,  from  the  beginning.  But  of 
cotirse  the  verdict's  '  Guilty'  for  Madame!  ..." 

Brayham,  with  a  King's  Bench  cough,  admitted  that  he 
had  few  misgivings  as  to  the  ultimate  upshot.  Upon  the 
waiter's  return  without  a  newspaper,  affirming  a  copy  not 
to  be  procurable,  judicial  inquiries  elicited  from  the  man 
that  the  general  furore  for  news  was  less  due  to  popular 
interest  in  the  fam.ous  cause  celebre  than  to  popular  thirst 
for  details  with  reference  to  the  Assassinations  at  Serajevo. 
Which  brought  from  Lady  Wathe  the  shrill  query: 

"Sarajevo — where's  Sarajevo?  Ask  him  about  the 
Verdict — I  simply  must  know!" 

The  Verdict  had  been  "Not  Guilty,"  according  to  the 
waiter.  .  .  .     The  Goblin  screamed: 

' '  But  she  is ! — she  is !  Good  heavens,  my  dear  Sir  Thomas ! 
Isn't  it  murder  to  riddle  an  editor  to  death  in  his  own  office, 
before  his  subordinates,  with  bullets  from  a  revolver  3^ou've 
hidden  in  your  mufi?" 

Brayham  summoned  up  his  best  King's  Bench  manner  to 
answer: 

"If  he  dies — and  a  jury  don't  happen  to  decide  that 
you're  innocent — the  evidence  is  against  you,  my  dear 
ma'am!" 

72 


The  Gathering  of  the  Storm  73 

Lady  Wathe's  vivacious  gestures  provoked  astounding 
coruscations  from  her  panoply  of  jewels.  She  had  been 
certain  from  the  first  that  there  would  be  no  capital  sen- 
tence. But  "Not  Guilty."  .  .  .  Surely  it  should  have 
been  Mazas  for  life.  Or  New  Caledonia — didn't  they  send 
murderesses  to  New  Caledonia  ? 

Brayham,  with  a  tone  and  manner  even  more  deeply 
tinged  with  the  King's  Bench,  begged  leave  to  correct — 
arah ! — his  very  dear  friend's  impression  that  the  blameless 
and  much-tried  lady,  now  probably — aha — arah ! — supping 
in  the  company  of  her  husband  and  her  advocate  in  her  own 
luxurious  dining-room,  might,  without  libel,  be  called  a 
murderess.  Like — aha ! — many  other  highly-strung  women, 
Madame  Perdroux  had  had  recourse  to  the  revolver  as  the 
ultima  ratio.  But  the  Verdict  pronounced  by  the  President 
of  the  Paris  Court  of  Assize  that  afternoon  had — arah ! — 
purged 

"Bother  the  Verdict!"  snapped  the  Goblin. 

Brayham,  incensed  at  this  irreverence,  replied  with  acri- 
mony. The  pair  wrangled  as  Paris  had  wrangled  since  March 
1 6th,  while  the  great,  crowded  restaurant  buzzed  with  the 
name  of  an  obscure  town  in  Eastern  Europe — "Sarajevo, 
Sarajevo'' — tossed  and  bandied  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

We  have  learned  to  our  bitter  cost  the  appalling  signi- 
ficance of  this  crime  of  Sarajevo,  which  had  dwarfed  in  the 
estimation  of  the  keen-witted  Parisians  the  most  sensational 
cause  celhbre  ever  tried  before  a  French  Criminal  Court. 

The  Perdroux  trial  and  its  probable  result  had  split  Paris 
into  hostile  factions.  The  Press  had  attacked  or  defended, 
lauded  or  vilified  the  chief  personages  of  the  drama  with 
tireless  energy  for  weeks.  The  Verdict  of  "Not  Guilty" 
would  have  caused  fierce  rioting  upon  the  boulevards  this 
sultry  night  of  July.  Blood  would  have  been  spilt  between 
the  partisans  of  Madame  Perdroux  and  her  opponents,  but 
for  this  unexpected  bolt  from  the  blue. 


74  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Berlin  had  had  the  story  of  the  assassinations  with  its  break- 
fast-rolls and  hot  creamed  coffee.  Now,  in  the  blue-white 
glare  of  the  great  electric  arc-lamps  of  the  Paris  boulevards, 
men  and  women  leaned  over  one  another's  shoulders  to  get  a 
whiff  of  the  big  black  letters  on  the  displayed  contents-bills; 
at  every  kiosk  and  bookstall  the  newspaper-vendors  were 
sold  out;  much-thiunbed  copies  of  the  papers  were  bought 
by  knowing  speculators,  to  be  sold  and  bought  and  sold  again. 

The  Kaiser  at  Kiel  was  racing  his  own  clipper  when  the 
operator  of  the  Imperial  private  wireless  read  a  story  from 
the  notes  of  the  singing  spark  that  smote  him  pale  and  sick. 
When  his  anointed  master  heard  the  gory  news,  his  chief 
regret  seems  to  have  concerned  the  untimely  decease  of  the 
partner  of  his  "life-work."  "It  will  have,"  he  said  with 
bitterness,  "  to  be  begun  all  over  again ! ' ' 

One  wonders,  in  the  blood-red  light  of  four  years  of  dread- 
ful carnage,  seeing  Hell  and  its  dark  Powers  still  unchained, 
and  raging  on  this  War-torn  earth  of  ours — what  would 
have  been  the  nature  of  the  edifice  reared  by  these  two 
Imperial  craftsmen,  had  the  younger  not  been  removed  by 
a  violent  and  sudden  death? 

Did  the  prospect  of  unlocking — with  one  touch  on  an 
electric  button  and  the  scrawl  of  a  wet  pen — the  brazen 
gates  of  Death  and  Terror  ever  strike  cold  to  the  heart  of  the 
rufous  Hapsburg  Archduke?  Madness,  we  know,  is  in  the 
blood  of  his  evil-fated  House.  But,  when  the  shots  from  a 
Bosnian  High  School  student's  revolver  pierced  Franz 
Ferdinand's  brain  and  body,  was  he  sane  enough  to  realise 
that  the  crime  of  the  Anarchist  had  saved  his  own  name 
from  foul,  indelible,  and  hideous  infamy?  We  shall  know 
when  the  trumpet  of  the  Archangel  sounds  the  Last  Reveille, 
and  the  grave  gives  up  its  dead,  and  the  Sea  spews  forth  its 
victims,  and  the  secrets  of  that  deeper  abyss,  the  human 
heart,  are  revealed  in  the  sheer,  awful  Light  that  streams 
from  the  Throne  of  God. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   SUPERMAN 

People  had  for  some  time  been  rising,  passing  out 
through  the  oxidised  silver-framed  glass  doors  of  Spitz's 
big  brilliant  dining-room;  beyond  these  the  vestibule  was 
now  full  to  the  walls,  so  that  its  palms  and  tree-ferns  rocked 
amidst  the  billows  of  a  heaving  human  sea.  Many  guests 
lingered  in  conversation,  standing  in  groups  near  the 
vacated  tables.  The  glitter  and  blaze  of  jewels,  adorning 
bizarre  coiffures,  bare  and  powdered  throats,  bosoms,  arms, 
and  backs,— the  dazzling  display  of  brilliantly-hued  toilettes, 
made  an  ensemble  marvellously  gay.  And  now,  returning 
as  they  had  arrived,  but  unattended  by  M.  Spitz,  came  the 
party  of  notables  from  the  German  Embassy,  talking 
together  in  loud,  harsh,  Teutonic  accents.  Von  HeiTnung, 
erect,  stiffening  to  the  salute  as  previously,  remained  in  the 
rigid  attitude  until  the  Ambassador  had  passed.  But  this 
time  the  official  finger  beckoned.  He  turned,  pushed  back 
his  chair,  and  in  a  stride,  joined  the  squat,  elderly  figure. 
The  yellow-white,  heavily-featured  face  with  its  stiff  brush 
of  white  hair  above  the  square  brain-box  turned  to  him,  the 
deeply-pouched,  shrewd  gx"ey  eyes  looked  past  him  to  the 
table  he  had  left.  The  coarse  mouth  under  the  white 
moustache  with  the  brushed-up  points,  uttered  a  few  em- 
phatic words.  Then,  with  a  slight  nod,  the  representative 
of  the  All  Highest  at  Berlin  passed  on.  The  swing-doors 
opened  and  shut  behind  him  and  his  following.  And  von 
Herrnung  rejoined  his  party,  saying  with  a  queer,  e.xcited 
breathlessness: 

"The    ladies    will    pardon.  .  .  .     His    Excellency    had 
something  to  say!" 

75 


76  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

The  ladies  were  rising,  looking  for  their  theatre-wraps. 
He  deftly  lifted  the  barbaric  garment  of  green  velvet  and 
sable-edged  ermines  from  the  back  of  Miss  Saxham's  chair, 
and,  opening  it,  held  it  to  receive  her  tall,  luxuriant  person, 
mentally  commenting: 

"With  such  hips,  such  a  bosom,  and  such  shoulders,  the 
jade  must  be  twenty-eight  or  nine."  And  remembering 
how  boldly  she  had  said  to  him  that  she  liked  red  men,  he 
thought:  "Amusement  here.  .  .  .  Nothing  needed  but 
time  and  opportunity — which  this  Bosnian  affair  reduces 
to  a  minimum."  "Gnddiges  Frdulein  will  you  not  put  on 
your  mantel  ?" 

She  told  him  that  she  was  too  hot.  He  insisted,  with  all 
the  Teuton's  dread  of  chill : 

"But  it  will  be  cooler  in  the  vestibule,  and  cooler  still 
when  we  are  driving.  Do  we  not  go  on  to  a  theatre?  I 
think  Lady  Wathe  has  told  me  so?" 

She  shrugged  her  splendid  shoulders. 

"Nothing  so  proper.  The  Jardin  des  Milks  Plaisirs,  on 
the  Champs  Elysees.  We're  all  dead  nuts  on  seeing  the 
new  dance  from  Sao  Paulo.  The  thing  that  has  exploded 
Tango  and  Maxixe,  you  know.  Look! — the  others  are 
moving.  Don't  let's  lose  them!  No!  I  won't  take  your 
arm.     Please  carry  my  wrap  with  your  coat. " 

"I  will  put  my  coat  on.  Then  I  shall  better  carry  your 
mantel.'' 

An  attendant  deftly  hung  von  Herrnung's  thin  black, 
sleeveless  garment  over  his  broad  shoulders,  and  gave  him 
his  white  silk  wrap  and  soft  crush  felt.  He  slipped  a  coin 
into  the  man's  palm,  its  small  value  being  instantly  reflected 
in  the  features  of  the  receiver,  and  moved  towards  the 
swing-doors  with  Patrine.  She  said,  as  a  slight  block  mo- 
mentarily arrested  their  progress : 

"What  are  they  all  jabbering  about?  Who  has  been 
assassinated?  What  has  happened  at  this  place  with  the 
crackjaw  name?  ..." 


The  Superman  TJ 

"Sarajevo  ..."  came  in  von  Herrnung's  guttural 
accent. 

"Sarajevo.  .  .  .  Not  that  I  knowwhere  it  is, "  said  the 
deep  warm  voice,  that  was  more  like  a  young  man's  bari- 
tone than  a  young  woman's  contralto.  And  von  Herrnung 
answered,  with  a  renewal  of  that  tingling  thrill: 

"Sarajevo  is  the  capital  of  Bosnia  in  Eastern  Europe. 
When  Austria  annexed  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina  in  1909, 
she  made  her  seat  of  Government  at  Sarajevo.  The  Slavs 
grumbled.  They  wished  for  union  with  Servia — that  little 
nation  of  pig-breeders!  .  .  .  They  themselves — the  Bos- 
nians— are  stupid  peasants,  dummer  Teufelsl — Schafskopfs! 
They  cultivate  their  land  with  the  wooden  ploughs  that 
were  used  at  the  date  of  the  Trojan  War.  .  .  .  But  this 
does  not  interest  you  at  all,  I  think?" 

"How  do  you  know  it  doesn't  interest  me?" 

"Because  dress  and  jewellery  and  amusement  are  the 
chief  things  in  your  life,  gnddiges  Frdulein.  You  are  not 
even  interested  in  der  Politik,  or  in  the  higher  KuUur.  The 
social  progress  of  your  own  country  is  nothing  to  you.  You 
are  too " 

"Too  frightfully  stupid.  .  .  .     Thanks!" 

"I  did  not  say  too  stupid,"  von  Herrnung  contradicted. 
"  But  if  you  were  stupid,  you  are  too  hellishly  handsome  for 
that  to  matter  in  the  least. " 

To  be  called  hellishly  handsome  pleased  her.  Her  eyes 
gave  him  a  flashing  side-glance.  As  a  surge  in  the  crowd 
pressed  her  curving  hip  against  his  tall,  muscular  body,  she 
took  his  offered  arm  with  a  rough,  brusque  grace.  They 
were  near  the  swing-doors  when  she  spoke: 

"  Tell  me  about  the  Sarajevo  business.  .  .  .  Who  is  the 
official  swell  the  Trojan  ploughmen  have  hoisted — as  Lady 
Beau  would  say?" 

"I  will  tell  you.    It  has  happened  only  this  morning 


She  felt  the  man's  powerful  muscles  thrill  and  become 


78  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

rigid  with  suppressed  excitement  under  the  hand  that  rested 
on  his  arm. 

"Two  personages  of  the  highest  rank  have  been  horribly 
assassinated.  The  Archduke  Franz  Ferdinand,  Kronprinz 
of  the  Imperial  House  of  Austria,  and  his  wife;  you  have 
heard  of  the  Grdfin  Sophie  Chotek,  created  Duchess  of 
Hohenberg  ?  Virtually  she  was  Erzherzogin — Archduchess — 
but  the  wife  of  the  Archduke  by  a  manage  de  la  main  gauche. 
A  morganatic  marriage — such  unions  have  been  heard  of  in 
your  virtuous  England." 

They  had  passed  the  swing-doors  now,  and  mingled  with 
the  crush  in  the  vestibule.  Patrine  said,  signalling  with  a 
pair  of  long  black  su^de  gloves  and  a  vanity-bag  of  gilded 
metal  chain-mail : 

"There's  Lady  Beau.  Behind  the  second  column  right 
of  the  entrance.  And  here's  Captain  Courtley  coming  to 
hiirry  us  up!" 

Courtley,  smiling  and  unruffled  as  ever,  dodged  under  the 
huge  roseate  elbow  of  an  immense  lady  in  Oriental  kincob 
tissues.  He  gave  his  message,  turned  and  dived  back  again. 
The  rich,  womanly  baritone  of  Miss  Saxham  said,  address- 
ing von  Herrnung: 

"Lady  Wathe  and  Sir  Thomas  Bra3'-ham  have  gone  on  in 
Lady  Wathe's  auto-brougham.  Lord  Norwater  has  done  a 
bunk.  Pretended  he  had  an  appointment;  he's  been  fright- 
fully fed  up  v/ith  all  of  us  this  evening.  Lady  Beauvayse 
says  her  chauffeur  is  on  the  string  all  right,  but  about  a 
million  cars  are  ahead  of  him.  Why  did  your  Austrian 
Archduke  and  his  wife  go  to  that  place  in  Bosnia  if  it  wasn't 
healthy  for  Royalties?  Fancy! — they  went  to  their  deaths 
this  Sunday  morning!  Why  does  one  always  forget  it's 
Sunday  in  Paris?" 

"That  English  Sunday  of  yours,"  exclaimed  von  Herr- 
nung, "is  very  good  to  forget,  I  think!" 

vShe  gave  her  deep,  soft  laugh.     He  went  on  rapidly: 

"Of  the  Archduke  and  the  Duchess  I  tell  you,  since  you 


II 


The  Superman  79 

have  asked  me.  .  .  .  They  inspected  the  troops — regi- 
ments of  the  Austrian  garrison.  Then  they  drove  in  their 
automobile  along  the  Appel  Quay,  towards  the  Sarajevo 
Town  Hall.  They  are  passing  beneath  the  shade  of  an 
avenue  of  tamarind  and  oak  trees  when  a  bomb  is  thrown 
at  them  by  a  man  hidden  among  the  branches.  .  .  .  The 
Archduke  is  very  prompt — he  wards  off  the  bomb  with  his 
arm.  He  is  not  then  hurt,  nor  is  the  Duchess.  But  his 
Adjutant — in  the  car  behind  them — is  wounded  in  the  neck. 
When  they  arrive  at  the  Town  Hall  the  Mayor  commences 
the  address  of  welcome.  To  him  Franz  Ferdinand  says 
angrily:  'Halt  den  Mund !  .  .  .  Shut  up,  you  silly  fellow! 
What  the  big  devil  is  the  use  of  your  speeches?  I  came  to 
Sarajevo  on  a  visit,  and  I  get  bombs  thrown  at  me.  ...  It 
is  too  damned  rotten  for  anything!  ..." 

"Yes,  yes!  .  .  .  Go  on!"  She  bit  her  lips,  fighting  a 
nervous  impulse  to  laugh. 

"So  the  Imperial  cortege  drove  away,  and  a  student  threw 
at  the  Archduke  another  bomb.  It  did  not  explode,  so  he 
shot  him  with  an  automatic  revolver,  an  American  Brown- 
ing. The  Duchess  tried  to  cover  him  with  her  body,  and  the 
assassin  shot  her  also.  The  Archduke  begged  her  to  live  for 
their  children,  but  both  victims  died  as  they  were  being 
taken  to  the  Governor's  house.  .  .  .  They  have  arrested 
the  assassins,  he  who  tried  to  kill,  and  the  fellow  who 
succeeded.  .  .  .  They  are  both  young,  and  men  of  Serb 
race.  They  are  rebels  all — they  hate  their  Austrian 
rulers.  Sarajevo  is  swarming  with  fellows  of  the  same 
breed.  ..." 

"What  will  the  Austrian  Government  do  to  them,  now 
they've  caught  them?" 

"To  the  regicides,"  von  Hermung  returned  harshly, 
"Austria  will  do — nothing  that  very  much  matters.  It  is 
not  an  important  thing  to  destroy  two  trapped  rats.  But  I 
think  there  will  be  an  ultimatum  from  Vienna  to  the  Servian 
Government;  and  if  the  terms  of  that  are  not  complied  with, 


80  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

then  the  Emperor  of  Austria  may  give  the  signal  for  his 
monitors  upon  the  Donau  to  open  fire  upon  the  capital  of 
Belgrade." 

Patrine  asked  negligently,  as  a  new  surge  of  the  crowd 
thrust  her  tall,  lithe  figure  away  from  her  companion's, 
forcing  her  to  tighten  her  hold  upon  his  arm: 

"'Monitors?'  ...  I  used  to  think  monitors  were  big 
schoolboys  and  schoolgirls.  Senior  pupils  told  off  to  keep 
order.  I  was  one  myself  once.  .  .  .  Chosen  because  I  was 
bigger,  and  noisier,  and  naughtier  than  any  other  girl  in  my 
class.  ..." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  .  .  .  Prdchtig!  .  .  .  That  is  capital!" 
She  could  feel  the  laughter  shaking  his  big  ribs.  "That  is 
just  what  they  are — those  monitors  of  the  Donau.  Each  is 
a  big  girl  who  keeps  order  von  anderen  Sorte.  But  they  have 
turned-up  noses,  not  Egyptian  and  beautiful  like  yours!" 

He  added,  with  the  calculated  roughness  that  had  previ- 
ously pleased  her: 

"You  shall  now  put  on  your  mantel.  For  the  car,  I  see, 
is  open."  He  shrugged  his  broad  square  shoulders  closer 
into  his  overcoat  and  pulled  up  the  collar  about  his  throat, 
saying  ill-temperedly :  "Always  does  one  find  it  with  the 
English.     It  is  Idcherlich — that  passion  for  the  air." 

"Lovely,  did  you  say?   ..." 

Ignorant  or  careless  that  he  had  said  "ridiculous,"  Pat- 
rine suffered  him  to  wrap  her  mock  ermines  about  her,  seeing 
above  the  frieze  of  waiting  figures  that  filled  in  the  lower 
part  of  the  picture  framed  by  the  portico,  the  emerald-green 
bird-of-Paradise  plume  of  Lady  Beauvayse  whisk  into  the 
big  white  Rolls-Royce,  past  the  neat  black-haired  head  of 
Courtley,  and  the  peaked  cap  and  pale  Cockney  profile  of 
Morris,  the  chauffeur.  She  threw  back  a  jest  as  she  passed 
out: 

"I'm  glad  you  think  it  lovely.  It's  one  of  the  nicest 
things  about  us — that  we're  keen  on  soap  and  water  and 
can't  do  without  lots  of  fresh  air." 


The  Superman  8i 

She  was  in  the  car  before  his  outstretched  hand  could 
touch  her.  He  followed,  letting  Courtley  precede  him 
because  he  wished  to  sit  opposite,  and  the  great  Rolls- 
Royce  purred  out  of  the  jam  beneath  the  illuminated  glass 
archway,  and  in  a  moment  was  out  of  the  Place  Vendome 
and  moving  with  the  stream  of  vehicles  down  the  Avenue 
of  the  Champs  Elysees.  In  the  mingling  of  moonlight  and 
electric  light  the  tawdry  paste  jewels  of  Patrine's  preposter- 
ous diadem  rivalled  the  costly  splendours  of  the  jewelled 
fillets  adorning  Lady  Beauvayse's  coiffure,  her  panache  of 
white  osprey  flared  above  her  broad,  dark  brows  as  insol- 
ently as  though  they  crowned  a  Nitocris  or  a  Cleopatra. 
But — and  here  was  a  titillating  discovery — the  strange  face 
with  its  broad  brows,  wide,  generously-curving  cheeks,  and 
little  rounded  chin,  did  not  belong  to  a  woman  of  thirty,  or 
even  twenty-five.  She  was  much  younger  than  the  Ger- 
man, who  plumed  himself  upon  hi?, flair  for  the  accurate  dat- 
ing of  women,  had  at  first  credited.  It  would  be  amusing 
— he  told  himself  again — hellishly  amusing,  to  cultivate 
this  curious  hybrid,  half  hoyden,  hali  femme-dii-monde. 

Sarajevo — still  Sarajevo.  You  caught  echoes  of  the 
crime  of  that  morning  in  the  tongues  of  twenty  nationalities 
upon  the  Paris  boulevards  that  night.  People  in  auto- 
mobiles and  open  carriages,  people  in  the  little  red  and  blue 
flagged  taxis,  people  crowding  the  auto-buses  and  Cook's 
big  open  brakes,  the  army  of  people  on  foot,  endlessly 
streaming  cast  and  west  along  the  great  splendid  thorough- 
fares, tossed  the  name  of  the  Bosnian  capital  backwards  and 
forwards,  as  though  it  had  been  a  blood-stained  ball. 

A  gay  masculine  voice  called  from  a  knot  of  chatterers 
standing  near  the  wide  illuminated  archway  of  electric 
stars  and  crowns  and  flowers  under  which  streamed  a 
variegated  crowd  of  pleasure-seekers  as  the  big  Rolls-Royce 
deposited  its  load : 

"  Noni  d'tin  chien !  What  a  pack  of  assassins  tnese 
Serbians !  .  .  .     And  yet — what  if  the  whole  show  were  got 


82  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

up  by  Rataplan  at  Berlin?  .  .  .  His  bosom  friend,  you 
say — the  big  Franz  Ferdinand?  Zut!  what  of  that?  .  .  . 
Sometimes  one  finds  inconvenient  the  continued  existence 
of  even  a  bosom  friend.  " 


CHAPTER   XIV 

A    PARIS   DANCE-GARDEN 

By  "Rataplan"  was  meant  the  Kaiser,  Patrine  compre- 
hended, as  her  companion  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
candid  speaker,  muttering  something  that  sounded  like 
a  German  oath.  But  Lady  Beauvayse  was  twittering 
through  a  filmy  screen  of  verd-blue  chiffon,  now  discreetly 
enveloping  her  lovely  Romney  head ; 

"We're  going  to  hunt  up  Lady  Wathe  and  Sir  Thomas. 
Take  care  of  Miss  Saxham,  Count  von  Herrnung,  in  case  we 
get  separated  in  the  crush.  .  .  .  Don't  forget  our  pro- 
gramme, Pat.  A  whiff  of  Cafe  Concert  .  .  .  Colette  Colin  is 
billed  to  sing  some  of  her  old  songs  and  the  very  newest  of 
the  new  ones.  .  .  .  Then  we're  coming  to  the  Pavilion  de  la 
Danse  to  see  the  Sao  Paulo  sensation.  ...  La  Rivadavia 
and  Herculano,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  crowd.  .  .  .  Meet 
you  there.  .  .  .  So  long!     Mind,  you're  not  to  get  lost!" 

"In  London  you  often  hear  La  Colette,"  said  von  Herr- 
nung, as  ho  paid  the  lean-jawed  functionary  in  the  gold- 
laced  light-blue  uniform — the  usual  notice  of  free  entry 
having  vanished  from  the  entrance — and  passed  with  his 
companion  into  the  gravelled  promenade  of  the  open-air 
concert-hall.  "But  to-night  you  will  hear  no  songs  of  old 
France,  no  Chansons  Pompadour  nor  Chansons  Crinoline. 
She  comes  to  this  place  from  her  own  theatre  to  oblige  an  old 
comrade.  There  is  Nou-Nou  in  that  box  with  some  smart 
women  and  the  Turk  who  wears  our  Prussian  Order  of  the 
Red  Eagle  with  the  Star  and  Crescent  of  the  Medjidic.  He 
is  Youssouf  Pasha,  the  Sultan's  Envoy-Extraordinary. 
Nou-Nou  has  brought  him  to  hear  La  Colette.  Shall  we 
not  sit  heie?" 

85 


84  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"Who  is  Nou-Nou?"  Patrine  asked,  as  she  settled  her 
tall,  luxuriant  person  on  one  of  the  little  green-painted  iron 
chairs. 

"Who  is  Nou-Nou?"  her  companion  echoed.  "You  saw 
her  to-day  at  Longchamps  in  her  black  confection.  Every- 
body was  looking.  .  .  .  She  is  wonderfully  chic — Nou- 
Nou!     May  I  be  permitted  to  light  a  zigarre  .?  ..." 

"Do!  ,  .  .  But — why  is  she  so  much  the  rage?  She 
isn't  even  pretty,  your  Mademoiselle  Nou-Nou. "  Patrine 
said  it  with  her  bright  gaze  fastened  on  the  famous  Impro- 
priety who  had  paraded  under  the  chestnuts  of  Longchamps 
in  the  sheath  of  black  gauze  unlined,  save  -with  her  own 
notorious  attractions — both  irresistible  and  fatal,  judging 
by  their  recorded  effects  upon  excitable  Parisian  viveurs  and 
gommeux.  She  saw  a  triangular  and  oddly-crumpled  face, 
rouged  high  upon  the  cheek-bones  in  circular  patches,  a 
pair  of  almost  extinguished  eyes,  indicated  by  streaks  of 
blue  pencil,  and  caught  a  sentence  screamed  at  the  stout 
Turk  in  a  voice  like  a  hoarse  cockatoo's.  Boldly  erect  upon 
the  skull  adorned  by  a  scanty  thatch  of  lemon-yellow  bal- 
anced a  black  feather,  long  and  attenuated  as  the  wearer. 
Nou-Nou's  stick-like,  fleshless  arms,  the  cadaverous  and 
meagre  torso  unblushingly  revealed  by  the  transparent 
casing  of  her  upper  person,  might  have  enthralled  a  keen 
student  of  anatomy.  But  of  feminine  charms,  in  the 
accepted  sense  of  the  word,  she  possessed  not  one,  it  seemed 
to  Patrine. 

"  Do  not  look  at  her  too  hard,  or  she  may  send  round  and 
invite  you  to  supper,"  warned  the  laughing  voice  of  von 
Herrnung  speaking  close  to  her  ear.  "She  has  all  the  vices 
— the  good  Nou-Nou ! " 

"Including  the  vice  of  indiscriminate  hospitality," 
Patrine  laughed;  but  a  little  uncontrollable  shudder  rippled 
over  her  as  she  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  painted,  crumpled 
visage,  leering  with  half-extinguished  eyes  from  under  the 
canary-coloured  wig. 


A  Paris  Dance-Garden  85 

"That  is  so.  Tell  me — you  and  Lady  Beauvayse  seem 
great  friends — quite  inseparable.  ..."  He  leaned  nearer, 
his  bold  eyes  closely  scrutinising  her  face.  "  How  comes  it 
that  she  leaves  you  alone  in  a  Paris  dance-garden:  with  me, 
whom  you  have  met  to-night — for  the  first  time?" 

"She  knows  I  can  take  jolly  good  care  of  myself,  wherever 
and  with  whomsoever  I  may  happen  to  be!"  Her  black 
brows  frowned;  it  was  evident  she  resented  his  criticism. 
"And — what  are  you  getting  at?  What's  the  matter  with 
poor  old  Paris?  You  know — perhaps  it  sounds  odd! — but 
I've  never  been  in  Paris  before.  .  .  .  And  I  love  it! 
Down  to  the  ground — it  suits  me !  It's  so  gay  and  brightly- 
coloured  and  pagan.  The  pubHc  buildings  and  parks  are 
dreams;  the  shops — too  entrancing  for  anything !  And  this 
place,  with  its  jabber  and  music  and  stagy  illuminations, 
trellises  where  real  roses  mix  up  with  artificial  ones — orna- 
mental beds  of  geraniums  and  calceolarias  and  thingumbobs 
bordered  with  smelly  little  oil  lamps,  gilt  band-stands,  con- 
certs, and  lovely  trees  in  blossom.  ...  Is  it  so  luridly 
awful?  To  me,  it's  rather  sweet!  Of  course  the  dancing — 
everybody  knows  the  dancing  is  pretty  well  the  limit.  But 
one  has  seen  such  a  lot  of  Tango  in  London — the  bloom  will 
be  pretty  well  rubbed  off ! " 

"Yet  some  lingers.  You  have  still  something  to  learn 
f  rom  Herculano  and  La  Rivadavia !   .    .    ." 

"Do  I  strike  you  as  such  a  perfect  daisy  of  inexperience? " 
Something  in  his  tone  stung,  for  the  full  white  cheeks  col- 
oured faintly.  "You  didn't  talk  to  me  at  dinner  as  though 
I  were  one!" 

"How  could  I  help  that?"  he  asked,  with  the  roughness 
that  had  previously  intrigued  her.  "Am  I  to  blame  that 
you  look  like  Phryne  or  Aspasia  when  you  are  only  Made- 
moiselle de  Maupin — before  she  set  out  upon  her  travels? 
For  you  have  only  got  as  far  as  Paris  with  your  friend  Lady 
Beauvayse.  Why  does  she  bring  you?  I  am  curious  to 
know. " 


86  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"  Because  I  am  her  paid  secretary  and  amanuensis. "  Pa- 
trine  brought  the  words  out  with  a  rush ;  it  was  clear  that  she 
thought  the  candour  a  necessity,  but  hated  it.  "  She  can't 
get  on  without  one,  and  her  husband,  Lord  Beauvayse — 
awful  little  bounder ! — won't  stand  her  having  a  man.  Don't 
great  ladies  have  secretaries  in  Germany?  Can't  you  see 
me  doing  Lady  Beau's  correspondence  in  my  fearful  fist — 
enclosing  cheques  to  people  who  solicit  donations  for  char- 
ities with  a  committee  and  Hon.  Treasurer — tearing  up  the 
begging  letters  full  of  howlers  in  the  spelling-line — smelling 
of  bad  tobacco  and  beer  or  gin?  Then  I  have  to  keep  her 
posted  in  her  engagements,  go  to  shows,  and  functions,  and 
kettledrums  with  her  when  she  hasn't  a  pal  handy — that's 
where  my  share  of  the  fun  comes  in.  Just  as  I'm  visiting 
Paris,  as  I  dare  say  I  shall  visit  other  centres  of  lively  in- 
iquity— in  the  character  of  the  sheep-dog  that  doesn't 
bow-wow  at  the  wrong  man!" 

"You  should  bow-wow  at  me. "  His  teeth  were  hidden, 
but  his  eyes  were  crinkled  up  with  soundless  laughter. 
"For  I  am  a  very  wrong — a  very  wicked  man!" 

"How  sad!"  Her  brows  were  still  frowning,  but  her 
wide  red  mouth  was  beginning  to  curl  up  at  the  corners. 
"Couldn't  you  reform?     Is  it  too  late?" 

"I  hope  so!"  he  answered  her.  "For  if  I  were  good  I 
should  possess  no  attraction  for  a  woman  of  your  type.  And 
to  charm  you  I  would  give  my  soul — if  I  had  a  soul !" 

"Great  Scott!  You're  candid.  .  .  .  Modest  too.  .  .  . 
And  complimentary!" 

"  I  am  candid,  because  I  cannot  help  myself. " 

Three  comedians  had  come  upon  the  stage.  She  told  him 
not  to  talk  to  her.  She  wanted  to  see  the  turn;  she  liked 
music-hall  stuff.  He  obeyed,  mentally  congratulating  him- 
self on  having  ascertained  her  social  status,  something  better 
than  a  typist,  hardly  on  the  same  level  with  his  sister  Gusta's 
dame  de  compagnie. 

While  his  bold  eyes  read  the  book  of  her  provokingbeauty, 


A  Paris  Dance-Garden  87 

the  performance  on  the  stage,  backed  by  the  deep  green 
palmate  foHage  and  white  or  ruddy  candelabra-Hke  blossom- 
sprays  of  the  chestnuts,  framed  by  a  broad  band  of  electric 
lamp-flowers,  was  culminating  to  its  final  gag.  A  pre- 
posterously fat  man  attired  in  the  historic  low-crowned  hat, 
Union  Jack  waistcoat,  brass-buttoned  blue  tail-coat,  leath- 
ers and  hunting-tops  of  the  traditional  John  Bull,  another 
comedian  in  the  legendary  costume  of  M.  Jacques  Prud'- 
homme,  and  a  truculent-looking  personage  whose  Teutonic 
French  accent,  spiked  silver  helmet  with  the  Prussian  eagle. 
First  Imperial  Guards  cuirass  and  tunic,  breeches  and 
spurred  jack-boots,  in  combination  with  a  well-known  mous- 
tache with  upright  ends,  a  huge  Iron  Cross,  and  a  great 
many  other  property  decorations,  left  no  doubt  as  to  the 
political  bent  of  the  scrap  of  pantomime. 

It  was  an  ordinary  bit  of  comic  knockabout,  to  which  the 
tragic  circumstances  of  the  day  lent  a  peculiar  tang.  One  has 
seen  it  before,  played  by  the  three  comedians,  in  the  green- 
baize  aprons,  brown  duffel  knee-breeches,  and  shirt-sleeves 
sported  by  the  waiters  of  low-class  Paris  or  Munich  brasseries. 

In  the  centre  of  the  stage,  instead  of  a  bright-hooped  beer- 
barrel  on  a  wooden  cellar-stand,  was  a  revolving  globe  repre- 
senting the  World.  And  each  of  the  three  comedians,  being 
armed  with  a  tumbler,  a  spile-awl,  and  a  spigot-tap,  pro- 
ceeded, with  appropriate  patter,  gesture,  and  grimaces,  to 
insert  his  spigot,  draw,  and  drink.  John  Bull  turned  the 
globe  to  the  United  Kingdom,  and  tapped  the  big  black 
patch  in  East  Middlesex.  Creamy-headed  London  porter 
filled  his  glass.  He  held  it  up,  nodded  a  "Here's  to  you!" 
and  toped  oil.  M.  Prud'homme  punctured  France  in  the 
rich  vine-growing  district  of  Epernay.  Champagne  crowned 
the  goblet,  and  he  drank  in  dumb  show  to  Gallia,  the  land  of 
love,  laughter,  and  wine.  It  was  then  the  turn  of  the  Teu- 
ton. He  bored,  and  Brandenburg  yielded  a  tall  bock  of 
foaming  blonde  lager.  He  sucked  it  down  with  guttural 
Achs  of  delight. 


88  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

But  this  was  not  all.  John  Bull  exploited  the  East  Indies. 
A  stream  of  rubies  and  emeralds  filled  his  glass.  He  bored 
deep  in  the  Union  of  South  Africa — diamonds  and  gold-dust 
heaped  the  vessel.  Fired  by  his  success,  M.  Prud'homme 
inserted  his  spigot  into  wealthy  Bordeaux,  whipped  it  out, 
applied  his  lips,  and  drank  deep.  He  corked  the  oozing 
spot  and  tapped  Algerian  Africa.  Coffee  rewarded  him, 
fragrant  and  richly  black.  He  next  exploited  Pondicherry, 
Chandernagore  on  the  Hooghly,  French  Equatorial  Africa, 
and  New  Caledonia.  Nothing  came.  He  tried  Cochin 
China,  and  drew  off  a  glass  of  yellow  tea  at  boiling-point. 
Encouraged  to  drink  the  strange  beverage  by  the  apprecia- 
tive pantomime  of  his  British  neighbour,  he  swallowed  it, 
with  results  of  a  Rabelaisian  nature,  at  which  everybody 
laughed  heartily,  including  Patrine. 

It  was  now  the  turn  of  the  Teuton.  He  drew  German 
beer  from  Togoland,  Cameroon;  German  South-West  and 
South-East  Africa  yielded  an  indifferent  brand  of  the  bev- 
erage. German  New  Guinea  in  the  Pacific,  the  Solomon, 
Caroline,  and  other  islands,  with  Asian  Kiao-Chao,  merely 
wetted  the  bottom  of  the  glass  with  a  pale  fluid,  German 
beer  by  courtesy.  '' Sapperlot !  Der  Teufel!  Kreuzdonner- 
wetter!"  He  tasted,  spat,  stamped,  and  sputtered  forth 
strange  expletives,  M.  Prud'homme's  terror  at  these  un- 
earthly utterances  being  provocative  of  more  htunour  of  the 
Rabelaisian  kind.  Then  he  decided  to  try  again,  excited  to 
envy  by  the  spectacle  of  the  stout  Briton  drawing  gold  from 
Australia,  gold  from  Canada,  gold  from  New  Zealand  and 
the  West  Indies,  and  gold  from  Ceylon,  gold  from  the  Crown 
Colonies  in  China,  gold  from  the  Gold  Coast,  gold  from 
Rhodesia  and  Nigeria,  gold  from  everywhere;  filling  the 
capacious  pockets  of  his  blue  brass-buttoned  coat,  of  his 
tight  breeches,  of  his  nankeen  waistcoat,  until  he  bulked 
enormously,  a  Bull  of  Gargantuan  size. 

Such  wealth  roused  respect  in  Prud'homme,  who  esteems 
the  yellow  metal.     He  embraced  the  Briton,  heartily  con- 


A  Paris  Dance-Garden  89 


'  gratulating  him.  This  roused  the  Teuton's  ire.  He  seized 
the  spigot  and  once  more  plunged  it  into  Germany,  Prussia, 
Bavaria,  Saxony — each  of  the  States  yielding  beer,  beer, 
BEER.  He  went  on,  tapping,  filling,  and  guzzling.  .  .  . 
t;  Twelve  full  tvimblers  and  he  had  begun  to  swell  most  hor- 
ribly. Fifteen — and  his  rotundity  equalled  that  of  John 
Bull.  But  one  State  remained  untapped.  He  swilled  down 
the  twenty-fourth  bock,  drawn  out  of  Liibeck — plunged  the 
spigot  into  the  Reichsland — once  Alsace-Lorraine 

And  the  big  glass  crimsoned  with  a  sudden  spurt  of 
blood. 

It  was  over  in  an  instant,  the  comedians  had  skipped 
nimbly  from  the  scene,  the  globe  had  developed  a  pair  of 
very  thin  human  legs  and  followed  them  off  at  a  proscenium- 
wing,  before  many  of  those  who  had  witnessed,  clearly 
understood.  Only  the  men  and  women  of  GalHc  ra  ce  among 
the  cosmopolitan,  polyglot  audience  answered  with  a  deep, 
inward  thrill  to  the  ruby  gush  that  told  how  the  blood  of 
France  still  ran  red  in  the  throbbing  arteries  of  the  beloved, 
reft,  alienated  province,  in  spite  of  her  forty-five  years  of 
separation,  in  defiance  of  the  loathed  laws,  customs,  lan- 
guage, service,  all  the  gyves  rivetted  on  her  by  the  Teuton, 
her  conqueror.  Now  round  after  round  of  applause  sig- 
nified their  comprehension.  But  the  comedians  did  not 
answer  the  call. 

Von  Herrnung,  who  had  worn  the  same  contemptuous 
smile  for  every  phase  of  the  cltunsy  by-play,  relaxed  his  stiff 
features.  A  stout  tenor  from  the  Opera  appeared  and  sang  a 
Spring  song  by  Tchaikovsky,  following  it  with  the  exquisite 
Serenade  of  Rimsky  Korsakov,  "Sleep,  Sad  Friend." 

The  tenor  was  recalled.  Colette  Colin  succeeded  him. 
She  sang  ''Notre  Petite  Compagnon''  and  "La  Buveuse 
d' Absinthe''  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  pale,  lean,  red-nosed 
man  with  a  profile  grotesque  as  ever  adorned  a  comic  poster; 
who  touched  the  piano-keys  as  though  they  were  made  of 
butter;  and  had  a  way  of  sucking  in  his  steep  upper-lip  and 


90  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

cocking  his  eye  at  the  star  as  he  waited  on  her  famous  efforts, 
that  made  Patrine  shake  with  suppressed  laughter  on  her 
green  iron  chair. 

The  last  ironic  line  of  Rollinat's  ballad,  marvellously 
uttered  rather  than  sung,  died  out  upon  a  stillness.  A 
storm  of  approval  broke.  Men  and  women  stood  up  ap- 
plauding in  their  places,  and  the  singer  came  back,  to  sigh 
out  the  bitter-sweet  lyric  of  Jammes,  "Le  Parle  de  Dieu.'" 
Then,  while  her  name  still  tossed  on  the  surges  of  htmian 
emotion,  backwards  and  forwards  under  the  electrics,  Col- 
ette Colin,  the  pet  of  Paris,  the  eclipser  of  the  famous 
Theresa,  was  gone.  Something  of  the  yearning  anguish  of 
Jammes,  who  sees  Religion  as  a  dusty  collection  of  ancient 
myths  and  folk-tales;  to  whom  Faith  is  mere  superstition, 
but  who  would  give  his  all  to  be  able  to  pray  once  more  as 
in  childhood,  had  given  the  girl  lumps  in  the  throat  as  she 
listened  to  Colette  Colin.  Though,  unlike  the  sad,  Agnostic 
poet,  Patrine  had  no  tender,  sentimental  memories  in  con- 
nection with  a  mother's  knee. 

Not  from  Mildred  Saxham  had  she  learned  her  first  child- 
ish prayer,  but  from  a  procession  of  nurses ;  beginning  with 
"Now  I  Lay  Me  Down"  and  "Gentle  Jesus,"  instilled  by 
Hannah,  a  Church  of  England  woman,  continuing  with  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  insisted  on  by  Susan,  a  Presbyterian;  cul- 
mininating  in  the  "Our  Father"  "learned  the  childer"  by 
Norah  the  Irish  Catholic,  a  petition  which — minus  the  final 
line — was  just  the  same  as  the  Lord's  Prayer.  Also  the 
Creed  in  English,  and  a  surreptitious  "Hail  Mary"  which 
brought  about  the  sudden  exit  of  Norah  from  the  domestic 
scene. 

For  teaching  Patrine  and  Irma  about  God  and  Heaven 
and  all  that,  was  sufficiently  interfering,  said  Mrs.  Saxham, 
but  when  it  came  to  Popery,  rank  Popery,  it  was  time  the 
woman  went.  So  Norah  ceased  to  be,  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  little  Saxhams — and  He  who  had  risen  above  the 
horizon  of  childish  intelligence,  a  Being  vaguely  realised  as 


11 


A  Paris  Dance-Garden  91 

all-powerful  and  awful,  great  and  beneficent,  stern  and 
tender,  sank  and  vanished  at  the  same  time. 

But  the  Idea  of  Him  remained  to  be  merged  in  the  per- 
sonality of  the  child  Patrine's  dada.  Dada,  so  handsome 
and  jolly,  and  nearly  always  kind  to  his  rough  little  romping 
Pat.  The  boy,  Patrine's  senior  by  sixteen  months,  had  died 
in  infancy.  Captain  Saxham  was  always  gloomy  on  the 
deceased  David's  birthday.  Mildred  reserved  a  nervous 
headache  of  the  worst  for  the  anniversary,  the  kind  that  is 
accompanied  by  temper  and  tears. 

She  was  indifferent  to  Patrine,  who  resembled  the 
Saxhams.  But  she  was  devoted  to  Irma,  her  own  image 
bodily  and  mentally.  Thus  nothing  interfered  with  Pat- 
rine's adoration  of  her  father.  The  handsome,  genial,  ex- 
officer  of  cavalry  was  his  daughter's  god,  until  Mildred 
tore  away  the  veil  of  Deity,  broke  the  shrine  and  cast 
down  the  idol,  one  day  when  Patrine  was  fourteen  years 
old. 

The  girl  learned  that  Captain  Saxham's  noisy  fun  and 
alternating  fits  of  rage  were  due  to  over-indulgence  in 
brandy-and-soda.  That  he  gambled  away  Mildred's  in- 
come over  cards  and  Turf  speculations,  as  he  had  wasted  the 
sum  of  money  for  which  his  Commission  had  been  sold. 
That  he  was  "not  even  faithful" — that  he  spent  week-ends 
"at  hotels  with  fast  women";  that  he  was  not  worthy  the 
sacrifice  Mildred  had  made  for  him. 

Had  she  not  for  his  sake  jilted  his  younger  brother,  Owen ! 
Even  on  the  verge  of  their  marriage;  the  presents  received; 
the  house  taken  and  furnished;  the  trousseau  ready,  every- 
thing perfect  to  the  last  pin  in  the  wedding  veil.  Nobody 
could  resist  David  when  he  chose  to  woo,  but  why,  why  had 
Mildred  yielded?  So  fierce  a  sense  of  shame  awakened  in 
the  daughter  as  she  listened,  that  it  seemed  to  her  as  though 
her  face  and  body  scorched  in  the  embrace  of  an  actual, 
material  flame. 

"How  could  he?   .    .    .     How  could  you?   .    .    .      Betray 


92  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Uncle  Owen.  .  .  .  One  of  you  was  as  low-down  as  the 
other,  to  play  a  beastly,  sneaking  game  like  that!" 

' '  You  insult  your  mother  and  father.  Leave  the  room ! " 
commanded  Mildred.  And  Patrine  left  it,  vigorously  slam- 
ming the  door. 

Captain  Saxham,  who  had  sold  out  of  the  Army  when 
Patrine  and  Irma  were  respectively  seven  and  six  years  old, 
never  knew  what  he  had  lost  in  the  esteem  of  his  elder  daugh- 
ter. She  loved  him  still,  but  he  had  ceased  to  be  her  god. 
They  lived  at  Croybourn  and  occupied  three  sittings  at  one 
of  its  several  Anglican  Churches.  The  Vicar,  a  strenuous 
man,  whipped  in  Patrine  and  Irma  for  Confirmation  classes. 
They  studied  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles,  the  Athanasian 
Creed,  and  dipped  once  more  into  the  Protestant  Church 
Catechism,  first  instilled  at  the  certified  High  School  for  the 
Daughters  of  Gentlemen — an  establishment  they  attended 
as  day-pupils,  and  were  to  leave,  without  passing  the  Oxford 
Secondary, in  the  following  year  when  Captain  Saxham  died. 

For  David,  that  cheerful,  easy-going  Hedonist,  dropped 
off  the  perch  quite  suddenly,  in  the  smoking-room  of  his 
London  Club.  In  life  he  had  been  of  the  easy-going  type  of 
Christian,  who  avoids  open  scandal,  and  hopes  to  die  at 
peace  with  the  clergyman. 

An  attack  of  cerebral  effusion  had  anticipated  the  clergy- 
man. Mildred  and  Irma  wept  bitterly,  Patrine  sat  dry- 
eyed.  Even  in  the  face  of  the  new  tombstone  at  Woking 
Cemetery,  testifying  to  the  many  virtues  of  David,  as  sol- 
dier, husband,  and  father,  her  stiff  eyelids  remained  un- 
moistened  by  a  tear.  At  the  base  of  the  scrolled  Cymric 
Cross  ran  a  text  in  leaded  letters : 

"blessed    are    the   dead   who   die    IX    THE    LORD." 

The  undertaker  had  recommended  the  text  to  the  widov/ 
because  it  contained  the  right  number  of  letters  required  to 
fit  in  at  the  bottom.     But  did  it  fit  in,  Patrine  had  some- 


A  Paris  Dance-Garden  93 

times  wondered,  quite  so  appropriately,  at  the  close  of  her 

father's  life? 

She  treasured  his  portrait,  taken  at  the  age  of  thirty,  the 
tinted  presentment  of  a  handsome,  stupid  young  officer, 
resplendent  in  the  gold  and  blue  and  scarlet  of  a  crack  Dra- 
goon regiment.  It  had  fallen  to  her  keeping  when  her 
mother  had  re-married.  But  she  cherished  no  illusions 
regarding  the  original.  How  often,  since  her  own  eyes  had 
been  opened  to  the  fact  of  their  existence,  had  she  not 
screened  David's  vices  from  strangers'  eyes. 

She  had  made  him  her  ideal,  and  Mildred  had  revealed 
him  to  her  as  vicious,  unprincipled.  She  could  not  forgive 
her  mother  for  telling  her  those  horrors,  she,  Mildred — 
seemed  to  forget  whenever  she  was  pleased.  But  Patrine 
had  never  forgotten.  She  would  wake  at  night  even  now 
with  the  dry  sobs  shaking  her.  ...  To  have  been  able  to 
believe  in  that  dead  father  as  noble,  chivalrous,  good,  would 
have  been  so  sweet;  she  had  shed  big  surreptitious  tears  in 
sympathy  with  the  anguish  of  Jammes,  who  would  have  so 
loved  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  Almighty  God,  and  the 
dear  little  Jesus,  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  the  holy  Angels, 
because  Faith  is  so  restful,  5t  pamWc.   .    .    . 


CHAPTER   XV 


THE    BITE    IN    THE    KISS 


But  von  Herrnung  was  saying,  as  they  moved  with  a  strag- 
gling procession  of  similar  pleasure-seekers,  over  smooth 
sanded  pathways  between  beds  of  geranium  and  verbena 
and  lobelia,  ivy-leaved  geranium  and  gaily  coloured  foliage- 
plants,  bordered  with  little  twinkling  lamps: 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  have  just  heard  as  those  people 
passed  us?  The  tall  man  with  the  white  moustache,  and 
the  chic  little  woman  in  the  Spanish  mantilla.  She  told  her 
friend  that  we  make  a  handsome  couple.  Perhaps  that 
makes  you  a  little  angry?  .  .  .  Shall  I  make  you  still 
more  angry  ?  Well  then,  listen  ?  .  .  .  If  we  were  really 
a  couple  you  would  not  have  that  so-black  hair.   .    .    .  " 

"Why  not?"  He  had  roused  her  curiosity.  She  put 
away  the  little  damp,  laced  handkerchief.  "Would  your 
cruel  usage  of  me  have  turned  it  white  ? " 

"Not  that,  but  you  would  have  added  the  one  touch  that 
makes  perfection.  You  are  too  sombre — too  much  like  a 
night  in  October  with  all  that  cloudy  blackness.  .  .  .  You 
would  have  bleached  and  dyed  your  hair — not  yellow,  nor 
yet  orange — nor  even  flame.  .  .  .  The  colour  of  beech- 
leaves  in  winter,  as  one  sees  them  burning  against  a  snow- 
bank. And — all  the  women  would  be  crazy  with  jealousy — ■ 
and  all  the  men  would  be  dying  at  your  feet!  For  you 
would  be  Isis  then — you  would  be  the  Spliinx-woman  of 
whom  La  Forgue  wrote  and  Colette  has  sung  to  us.  You 
would  be  hellishly,  divinely  beautiful!" 

"Hellish  again."  She  gave  her  low,  deep  laugh,  pro- 
longing it  a  trifle  stagily.  "What  do  you  bet  me  I  don't — 
do  what  you  said?" 

94 


The  Bite  in  the  Kiss  95 

"Bleach  and  dye   .    .    .?" 

"That's  it."  She  nodded.  "To  the  colour  of— what 
was  it?     '  Beech-leaves  in  winter. '    .    .    ." 

"Against  a  snow-bank."  He  added:  "The  snow  is  your 
wonderful  skin.  And  I  will  bet  you  four  hundred  and 
twenty  marks — that  is  twenty  pounds  English.  Is  it 
agreed?   .    .    .      Do  you  not  say — Done?   .    .    .  " 

"Twent}'-  pounds.  .  .  ."  She  shrugged  her  big  white 
shoulders.  "My  dear  man,  I  haven't  got  twenty  pounds  in 
this  blessed  old  world!" 

He  hesitated;  finally  said  with  reluctance: 

"I  will  lend  you  twenty  pounds — it  will  cost  you  twenty 
pounds  to  have  your  hair  done  here  in  Paris.  .  .  .  But  you 
will  be  sehr  schon — the  money  will  be  well  spent.  No? 
.  .  ." — for  she  had  shaken  her  head,  frowning.  "It  is 
offered — why  will  you  not  accept?" 

"Because  I  won't.  .  .  .  There  are  some  things  I  draw 
the  line  at.     Borrowing  money's  one  of  them. " 

"Then  I  will  bet  you  my  magpie  pearl — you  may  have 
seen  it" — he  displayed  the  ornamented  little  finger — 
"  against  that  not- very-good  diamond  you  wear  on  your  left 
hand." 

She  burst  out  laughing  and  repeated  through  her  laughter: 

"'Not  very  good.'  I  call  that  insulting.  .  .  ,  When  it 
cost  me  fifteen  francs  in  the  Palais  Royal.  Well,  done  with 
you!" 

"It  is  done!  But  you  have  not  done  with  me."  Von 
Herrnung's  tone  had  a  new  note  of  triumph.  He  urged: 
"You  go  back  to  London — when?  .  .  .  The  day  after 
to-morrow.  .  .  .  Gut!  ...  I  have  myself  to  visit 
London  upon  business — I  shall  see  Isis  with  her  beautiful 
new  hair.  One  thing  more.  An  address  where  I  may  call 
and  see  it.     Be  quick!     We  turn  down  here!   .    .    .  " 

Patrine  protested,  peering  with  narrowed  eyes  through 
the  dusk-blue  twinkling  s^mi-darkness.  "But  no!  .  .  . 
That  big  marquee-thing  at  the  end  of  this  avenue — with  all 


96  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  festoons  of  lights  and  the  ring  of  promenade  about  it — 
surel}'  that's  the  Pavilion  de  la  Danse  ?" 

"Halt  den  Mund!"  His  hand  closed  peremptorily  on  her 
arm:  he  hurried  her  down  the  trellised  vine  walk  that  invited 
on  the  left  of  them,  as  light  measured  footsteps  padded  on 
the  gravel,  and  a  man  ran  past  calling,  as  it  seemed,  to  some- 
body ahead : 

"Miss  Saxham  ahoy!   .    .    .     Lady  Beauvayse " 

"He's  calling  me.  It's  Captain  Courtley.  ..."  Patrine 
persisted. 

"  Let  him  call !  Are  you  not  with  me? "  Von  Herrnung's 
tone  was  masterful.  "You  shall  go  to  him  when  you  have 
given  me  that  London  address!" 

She  was  amused  and  yet  annoyed  by  his  persistency. 

"Oh,  all  right!  'The  Ladies'  Social  Club,  Short  Street, 
Piccadilly,  West. '  That's  where  I'm  generally  to  be  found 
when  I'm  in  town." 

"  Sehr  gut !  Tell  me  once  again,  then  I  shall  not  forget, 
no!" 

"Wiite  it  on  your  cuff!" 

"  It  is  written  in  a  safer  place, "  he  told  her.  "We  Prus- 
sian officers  are  trained  to  remember  without  writing  things 
down.  A  face,  an  address,  a  conversation,  the  outlines  of  a 
country.  Though  for  reconnaissance  there  is  nothing  like 
die  Photographie. "  He  added:  "When  we  meet  in  London 
I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  everything  you  wore  to-night. " 

"Really!  .  .  .  How  flattering!  .  .  .  You've  made  a 
mental  inventory?" 

They  were  retracing  their  steps  to  the  avenue  recently 
quitted.     He  walked  with  noiseless  strides  behind  the  tall, 
supple  figure  as  it  moved  between  the  trellised  vines  and 
roses,  gowned  with  its  flaunting  diadem,  robed  in  the  in 
sincere  splendours  of  the  opera-mantle  already  described. 

"As  you  say.  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  that  the  back 
of  your  mantel  was  cut  in  a  V-shape  nearly  reaching  to  your 
waist-line.     Shall  I  tell  you  why?  " 


The  Bite  in  the  Kiss  97 

"  If  you're  keen  to.  ..."  She  felt  a  scorching  breath 
between  her  shoulders  and  quickened  her  pace,  making  for 
the  avenue.    But  he  moved  with  her,  his  voice  came  thickly : 

"Because  your  back  is  so  superbly  beautiful  you  cannot 
bear  to  hide  it  from  men!" 

"Ah-h!" 

vShe  whirled  about,  glaring  like  an  angry  leopardess,  her 
strong  white  arm  upraised  to  strike.  Face,  throat,  and 
bosom  glowed  with  painful  crimson.  Between  her  violated, 
insulted  shoulders,  his  furious  kiss  still  burned  and  stung. 

"How  dare  you  touch  me! "  she  gasped.  But  he  had  shot 
past  her  even  as  she  turned.  He  was  running  towards  the 
avenue,  calling  gaily: 

"Were  you  looking  for  us.  Lady  Beauvayse?  Here  we 
are!" 

"Cad,  cad!"  she  stammered.  "Insufferable!  beastly!" 
Then,  because  a  scene  was  quite  out  of  the  question,  she 
went  forward  with  head  held  high,  and  resentment  heaving 
her  broad  bosom,  to  meet  Lady  Beauvayse. 

"Pat!  You  needle  in  a  haystack,"  cried  her  friend, 
"where  did  you  get  to?" 

"Nowhere.  We  missed  you  at  the  Cafe  Concert,"  Pa- 
trine  began. 

"And  then,"  von  Hcrrnung  explained,  "we  happened  to 
take  the  wrong  turn.  But  we  have  not  gone  far  before  we 
are  recalled." 

" — To  the  path  of  probity,  "  suggested  Lady  Beauvayse, 
adding:  "And  in  this  instance  the  path  of  probity  leads  to 
the  Pavilion  de  Chahuf.  "  She  explained  to  Patrinc:  "  Cha- 
hiit  is  the  modern  version  of  the  can-can — famous  in  the 
days  of  the  Second  Empire ;  when  the  great  cocodettcs  of  the 
Court  of  the  Tuileries — rivals  of  Cora  Pearl  and  Skittles 
and  other  naughty  persons — did  high-kicking  under  the  rose 
here,  and  they  called  the  place  Mabille. " 

It  was  not  easy  to  get  near  the  Pavilion,  so  dense  and 


98  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

variegated  a  crowd  had  congregated  before  its  illuminated 
entrance.  But  the  entrance  fee  was  doubled.  Gold  must 
be  paid  to  see  the  famous  Sao  Paulo  dance.  Thus  many 
would-be  pleasure-seekers  of  the  less  affluent  kind  turned 
back  disappointed  from  the  row  of  gilt  turnstiles  under  the 
blazing  archway,  compelled  to  content  themselves  with  the 
outer  promenade. 

Breasting  the  human  eddy  caused  by  these,  Patrine  and 
her  party  passed  the  barrier,  climbed  a  flight  of  shallow  gilt 
marble  stairs  carpeted  with  pink  plush  and  decorated  with 
roses  and  tree-ferns  and  reached  the  elevated  promenade. 
Set  within  the  circumference  of  the  outer  one,  it  commanded 
a  complete  view  of  the  circular  ball-room,  to  whose  level 
descended  from  it  at  intervals  yet  other  flights  of  broad  gilt 
stairs,  similarly  carpeted  and  flower-decked  for  the  conveni- 
ence of  those  who  wished  to  join  the  dancers,  or  return  from 
the  ball-room  to  the  level  of  the  promenade. 

The  revels  were  in  full  swing.  Standing  upon  the  brink, 
looking  down  as  into  a  cockpit,  you  saw  Patrine,  superb  in 
her  false  diadem  and  mock  ermines,  leaning  her  bare  white 
hand  upon  a  velvet-covered  rail.  At  first  she  could  only 
make  out  a  giddying  whirl  of  arms  and  heads  and  shoulders. 
Presently,  the  picture  began  to  clear. 

To  the  wail,  clang  and  clash  of  strange,  discordant,  exotic 
music,  rendered  by  an  orchestra  of  coloured  performers,  two 
wide  circles  of  dancers  rhythmically  spun.  The  floors  they 
danced  on  were  set  at  different  levels,  and  rotated  auto- 
matically,— each  floor  revolving  in  a  different  direction. 
Coloured  lights,  flung  at  intervals  from  reflectors  in  the 
ceiling,  conveyed  to  Patrine  the  impression  of  staring  down 
upon  the  whirling  planes  of  a  huge  gyroscopic  top. 

Only  the  central  space  of  shining  parquet  was  void  within 
the  double  circle  of  gyrating  dancers.  A  crash  from  the 
orchestra  and  three  couples,  oddly  costumed,  leaped  sud- 
denly out  upon  the  floor.  Patrine  could  not  make  out  where 
they  had  come  from.     They  appeared,  and  there  was  a  slight 


The  Bite  in  the  Kiss  99 

commotion.  A  hedge  of  applauding  spectators,  four  or  five 
deep,  formed  about  the  central,  stationary  patch  of  par- 
quet. The  music  changed,  the  six  Brazilians  began  the 
famous  dance. 

They  were  not  beautiful  to  look  at  it  seemed  to  Patrine, 
the  men,  familiarly  styled  by  voices  in  the  crowd  as  Lauro, 
Pedro,  and  Herculano,  being  undersized,  sleek-headed,  lithe 
and  sallow,  attired  in  faultlessly  fitting  evening  dress-coats, 
white  vests,  black  satin  knee-breeches,  black  silks,  and 
buckled  pumps.  They  wore  shallow  collars  of  curious  cut, 
lawn-frilled  shirts  and  wide  black  neckties.  Their  female 
companions  were  swarthy  as  Indians,  even  through  their 
paint,  and  plain  of  feature.  But  their  superb  hair 
and  eyes,  the  rounded  grace  of  hip  and  waist  and  limb, 
the  slenderness  of  throat  and  wrist  and  ankle,  testified, 
-.ike  their  tiny  feet  and  high-arched  insteps,  to  a  strain 
of  Spanish  blood. 

"La  Rivadavia,  Alexandrina,  and  Silvana, "  the  eager 
spectators  named  them.  They  wore  transparent  sheaths, 
and  brief,  oddly  bo  tiff  ante  overskirts,  like  flounced  muslin 
lamp-shades  with  a  boldly  suggestive  forward  tilt.  They 
began  the  dance  with  some  familiar  Tango  figures.  The 
poses,  the  approaches,  the  hesitations,  were  well  known  to 
Patrine. 

"Nothing  very  new.  .  .  .  But — the  music  made  by 
those  buck  niggers!  ' Bizzarramente'  isn't  the  word  for  it. 
One  expects  to  see  gombos  covered  with  serpent-skin,  trum- 
pets of  elephant-tusk,  skull-rattles,  and  all  the  paraphernaha 
of  Obeah  in  the  orchestra,  instead  of  those  huge,  superb 
brass  wind-instruments,  cymbals  as  big  as  table-tops  and 
ten-foot  silver  trumpets,  like  poor  de  Souza's.  .  .  .  Raised 
in  the  States,  but  wasn't  he  a  Brazilian  by  birth? "  It  was 
the  voice  of  Lady  Beauvayse,  and  von  Herrnung's  answered 
from  behind  Patrine : 

"It  may  be  so.  But  the  Blechinstriimente  and  the  Blas- 
instrumente — for  the  biggest  of  those  they  have  to  go  to 


100  That  Which  Hath   Wings 

Germany.     Nowhere  else  can  they  be  made  as  there.  .  .  . 
Bravo!   .    .    .     Bis — bis!" 

He  applauded.  .  .  .  Everybody  was  applauding.  The 
gyroscopic  whirl  of  dancers  had  become  stationary.  All  now 
were  eager  spectators.  And  the  three  couples  from  Sao 
Paulo  had  reached  the  culminating  point  of  a  uniquely 
curious  and  exotic  figure.  Savage  and  violent,  sinuous  and 
creeping ;  suggestive  of  the  nocturnal  gambols  of  enamoured 
jaguars,  in  the  deep  primeval  forests  of  Brazil. 

"Horrid!  One  expects  them  to  lash  tails  and  roar.  .  .  . 
I've  got  what  Mrs.  Wiggs  of  the  Cabbage  Patch  called  '  cold 
clams  walking  up  my  backbone. ' "  Lady  Beauvayse  shud- 
dered and  made  a  pretty  grimace.  "All  the  same  I  think 
I'll  go  down  and  look  at  them  a  little  closer.  Ah-h !  .  .  . 
Good  grapes!  Why,  he  simply  picked  her  up  by  the  scruff 
of  the  neck  with  his  teeth  and  shook  her.  .  .  .  I've  just 
got  to  see  that  done  over  again!" 

She  was  gone,  with  a  whisk  of  the  emerald  bird  of  paradise 
and  a  waft  of  parftim  tres  persistant.  Captain  Courtley 
vanished  in  her  wake.  Patrine  made  no  motion  to  follow 
them. 

The  tense  excitement,  the  pungent  exhalations  rising  from 
the  crowded  ball-room  were  affecting  her  brain.  She  felt 
giddy,  and  the  steady  pressure  of  the  crowd  behind  her  was 
thrusting  her  to  the  very  verge  of  the  promenade.  She 
yielded  automatically,  unconscious  of  danger  near. 

You  are  to  see  her  there,  poised  on  the  verge  of  the  rose- 
carpeted  precipice,  her  hand  gripping  the  velvet-covered 
railing,  her  wide  nostrils  distended,  her  broad  bosom  heaving 
as  she  inhaled  the  sultry,  vitiated  atmosphere,  heavy  with 
a  myriad  perfumes,  tainted  by  a  thousand  breaths.  Her 
stare,  lifeless  as  the  enamelled,  glittering  regard  of  some 
Princess-mummy  of  Old  Egypt,  was  fixed  upon  the  artists, 
of  whom  two  couples  had  retired,  as  though  in  despair  of 
competition  with  the  chief  favourites,  leaving  La  Rivadavia 
and  her  comrade  Herculano  in  possession  of  the  floor. 


The  Bite  in  the  Kiss  loi 

And  the  passions  expressed  by  the  rhythmical,  sinuous 
movements  of  these  dancers  grew  moment  by  moment  less 
human,  and  more  bestial.  Art  of  the  most  consummate  was 
displayed  and  degraded.  Beauty  and  Truth  shone  pre- 
eminent in  the  hideous  display.  Now  the  woman  sank 
towards  the  ground,  with  supple  limbs  outstretched  and  her 
wild  head  thrown  back  in  fierce  surrender.  Her  white  fangs 
gleamed,  her  dumb  mouth  seemed  to  roar.  And  as  her 
conqueror  crept  stealthily  towards  her,  the  play  of  his  great 
muscles  could  be  seen  beneath  his  civilised  attire,  as  though 
his  supple  body  had  been  clothed  with  the  tawny-golden, 
black-dappled  hide  of  the  Brazilian  jaguar. 

As  Herculano  crouched  and  sj^rang,  La  Rivadavia's 
muscles  visibly  tightened.  She  bounded  high,  turned  in  the 
act.  .  .  ,  Their  gleaming  fangs  clashed  in  mid-air.  And 
from  the  massed  spectators  came  a  hiss  of  excitement, 
"  Th-h-h  !   .    .    .  "  like  the  hissing  of  a  thousand  snakes. 

"Great  Scott!"  Patrine  heard  herself  saying.  "Great — 
Scott!" 

She  no  longer  heard  von  Herrnung  harshly  breathing 
behind  her.  .  .  .  He  had  moved  to  the  leftward.  His 
tall,  broad-shouldered  figure  now  stood  against  the  railing 
some  dozen  feet  away.  His  well-cut  face,  seen  in  profile, 
was  purplish-red  to  the  crisp,  scarlet  waves  topping  his  high 
square  forehead.  The  big  white  hands  that  heldthe  glasses 
glued  to  his  eyes,  jerked,  and  as  he  pressed  against  the  rail- 
ing Patrine  knew  that  he  was  shuddering.  Now  he  looked 
at  her,  and  his  ravaged  face  was  terrifying  to  the  girl. 

"Will  you  not  .    .    .  "  he  began,  thickly. 

She  quivered,  cast  a  look  about;  saw  the  ugl}-  emotion 
under  which  he  laboured  reflected  in  every  face  within  her 
range  of  vision,  as  round  after  round  of  plaudits  rose  to  the 
roof  of  the  pavilion,  escaping  through  the  wide-open  spaces 
between  its  gilded,  rose-twined  pillars  into  the  night.  The 
rafters  vibrated  with  demands  for  a  repetition  of  the  popular 
sensation.     The  dancers  accepted  the  encore. 


102  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

If  von  Herrnung  beckoned  now,  asking  Patrine  to  go  down 
with  him  amongst  the  acrid  exhalations  of  that  cockpit  of 
variegated  lights,  thronged  with  excited  men  and  strangely- 
bedizened  women,  rent  by  devastating  emotions,  drunk  with 
strange  excitements,  would  Patrine  say  Yes  or  No?   .    .    . 

Ouf !  but  it  was  hot.  How  thick  the  air  was  with  those 
illusion  perfumes.  And  from  whence  was  that  cool  breeze 
blowing  that  suddenly  freshened  the  heavy  air?   .    .    . 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE   WIND   OF   JOY 

Patrine  drew  back  from  the  edge  of  the  promenade.  A 
stout,  swarthy  Frenchman,  a  Southerner  evidently,  whose 
full  brown  face  streamed  with  little  rills  of  perspiration, 
stepped  nimbly  into  her  vacated  place.  His  female  com- 
panion instantly  took  his.  The  same  movement  was  re- 
peated— the  packed  bodies  seemed  to  melt  before  her.  In 
a  few  more  steps  she  had  merged  from  the  crowd,  upon  the 
outer  edge  of  the  elevated  promenade. 

There  was  another  velvet  railing  there,  and  steps  leading 
down  to  the  promenade  upon  the  ground-level.  Against  the 
background  of  starlit  sky  and  illuminated  gardens  stood  the 
tall  figure  of  a  man.  He  was  broad-shouldered  and  lightly 
built,  the  poise  and  balance  of  his  figure  admirable.  But 
for  the  gleam  of  his  living  eyes  in  his  tanned  face,  and  the 
movements  of  his  head  as  he  turned  it  from  side  to  side, 
evidently  seeking  somebody,  he  might  have  been  a  statue  of 
Mercury  cast  in  light-hued  bronze. 

For  he  wore  loose,  waist-high  leggings  strapped  at  the 
ankles,  and  a  belted  gabardine  of  thin  light  brown  material, 
while  a  cap  with  an  upturned  brim  and  ear-flaps  dangled 
from  his  sunburnt  hand.  And  a  uniformed  official,  aH 
lacquered  moustaches  and  gold-laced  blue  cloth,  stood 
gesticulating  a  few  paces  from  him,  keen  on  defending  from 
so  unceremonious  an  intruder  the  integrity  of  the  Upper 
Promenade. 

"Monsieur  cannot  possibly  descend  into  the  ball-room 
.  .  .  the  costume  of  Monsieur  is  not  appropriate.  It  of- 
fends against  good  taste.  It  outrages  the  proj)ricties.  .  .  . 
It  is  peu  convenable  even  that  Monsieur  should  be  here. " 

I  O.I 


I04  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Patrine  heard  the  protest,  saw  it  driven  home  by  swift 
expressive  Gallic  gestures,  caught  a  gleam  of  mirth  in  the 
eyes  of  the  oddly-garbed  intruder,  and  the  quirk  of  a  smile 
at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  No  doubt  the  suggestion  of  the 
proprieties  in  connection  with  the  traditions  of  Mabille  had 
evoked  it.  She  liked  his  face;  it  was  lean  and  hard  and 
rather  hatchety,  with  a  brave  outlook  of  clear  light  eyes 
under  the  marked  eyebrows,  thick  and  straight  and  silvery- 
fair  against  his  sunburnt  skin.  To  her  woman's  eyes,  Fa- 
tigue was  stamped  upon  it  and  anxiety,  and  a  kind  of  rueful 
impatience,  as  he  apologised  for  the  necessity  of  the  intru- 
sion in  fragmentary  but  excellently  accentuated  French. 
He  came  in  search  of  a  friend,  who  was  here  and  must  be 
found ;  it  was  imperative.   .    . 

"There  is  to-morrow! — there  is  always  to-morrow!"  the 
official  stated  with  a  wave. 

"That's  just  the  point.  .  .  .  To-morrow!  .  .  ." 
The  stranger's  forehead  was  ploughed  with  lines  of  anxiety. 
He  spoke  in  English  now — the  well-bred,  modern,  clipped 
English  of  the  public  school  and  the  University.  "No!  yoa 
don't  understand" — for  the  official  had  vigorously  dis- 
claimed all  knowledge  of  the  strange,  barbarous  tongue  in 
which  the  other  addressed  him.  "And  I  don't  believe  I'd 
ever  make  you.  If  I  could  only  hammer  into  you  what 
sort  of  a  hat  I'm  in!" 

He  knitted  his  brows;  pulled  himself  together  for  a  crown- 
ing effort.  Patrine  spoke,  not  as  a  stranger  yielding  to  a 
sudden,  helpful  impulse,  but  quite  simply,  with  a  little, 
joj^ful  catching  of  her  breath: 

"Could  I  explain  for  you,  do  you  suppose?" 

"A — thanks!     You're  awfully  good!" 

He  turned  to  her  eagerly,  if  with  a  certain  embarrassment. 

"If  you  would.  .  .  .  There  is  a  man  here  I  have  to 
get  word  to.  And — what  French  I  have  is  simply  technical. 
.  .  .  You  hardly  find  it  in  modern  dictionaries — the 
argot  of  the  engine-shop  and  the  Flying  School." 


The  Wind  of  Joy  105 

"Now  I  understand.  ..."  She  smiled  in  his  perplexed 
face,  drinking  in  deep  breaths  of  the  fresh  fragrant  air  that 
blew  about  them  as  they  stood  together  behind  the  thick 
wall  of  bodies  that  hid  the  cockpit  from  their  view.  A  deep 
dimple  von  Herrnung  had  never  seen  showed  low  down  in 
one  of  her  pale  cheeks.  Their  whiteness  was  slightly  tinged 
with  delicate  pale  rose.  And  her  eyes  had  lost  their  brilliant 
enamelled  hardness.  They  shone  like  dusky  stars  as  she 
went  on:  "Now  I  know  why  I  thought  of  wide  green  spaces 
and  a  breeze  blowing  to  me  over  gorse  and  heather  as  I 
looked  at  you.  Sub-conscious  memories  of  Hendon  and 
Brooklands  and  Upavon.     For  you're  a  Flying  Man!" 

"Just  that!"  His  ruefulness  was  banished.  "And  now 
you  know  how  I  come  to  be  in  Paris  with  the  clothes  I  stand 
up  in  and  not  another  rag.  .  .  .  Two  of  us  flew  the 
Channel  yesterday  morning.  ...  If  the  weather  holds 
decent,  we  should  be  on  the  wing  again  by  four  a.m.  And 
my  mechanic's  given  me  the  slip.  To  say  he's  taken  French 
leave  would  be  appropriate  under  the  circumstances.  Left 
a  line — the  cool — beggar! — to  say  I'd  find  him  here.  "    •■     .<■] 

"Too  bad!"  she  said,  as  fresh  furrows  dug  themselves 
into  the  tanned  forehead.  "Not  fair  to  leave  you  in  the 
cart  like  that.  No  wonder  you  followed — hot  upon  his 
track." 

"Combed  the  whole  place — everywhere  they'll  let  me  in. 
But  my  aviator's  kit's  against  mc.  I've  seen  some  rummy 
get-ups.     But  they  draw  the  line  at  Carberry's  overalls." 

One  hand  rested  easily  on  his  hip,  in  the  other  hand  he 
swung  the  eared  cap  with  goggles.  A  pedestal  in  the 
moonlight  would  have  suited  him.  It  occurred  to  her  to 
ask : 

"What  was  he  like — your  runaway  mechanic?" 

"I  hardly  ...  Oh!  .  .  .  Little  black-avised  Welsh- 
man— barely  tips  the  scale  at  eight  stone.  Has  to  be  a 
light-weight,  because  I  weigh  all  of  eleven.  And  with  the 
hovering-gear — but  that  can't  interest  you." 


io6  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"  Indeed  it  does.     What  of  the  hovering-gear  ? " 

His  face  darkened  and  hardened.     He  said: 

"It's  an  invention  of  mine.  And  after  no  end  trying — 
our  own  people  at  Whitehall  simply  wouldn't  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  me — the  chiefs  of  the  French  Service 
Aeronautique  consented  to  give  it  a  test. " 

"  Sporting  of  them,  wasn't  it? " 

He  agreed: 

"No  end  sporting.  So  I  bucked  the  tiger  over  the 
Channel  with  Davis — to  find  that  an  officer  and  mechanic 
of  the  S.  A.  were  told  off  to  try  the  hoverer  over  the  selected 
area.  For  us  to  engineer  the  thing  ourselves  wasn't  'Teti- 
quette  militaire. '  That's  the  French  for  Government  red- 
tape. " 

"Bother  etiquette!  I'm  beginning  to  sympathise  with 
Davis!" 

His  vexation  broke  up  in  laughter. 

"That's  what  she  did.  She  sympathised  with  Davis 
and  carried  him  off  here." 

Patrine  said,  a  light  breaking  in  on  her: 

"Why,  of  course,  there  would  be  a  girl.  .  .  .  He'd 
hardly  come  to  a  place  like  this  alone,  would  he?" 

Some  query  in  his  look  made  her  add  hastily: 

"What  was  she  like?" 

"Like.  .  .  .  The  girl  who's  carried  off  Davis?  ..." 
He  reflected  a  moment.  "Pretty  and  plump  and  fluffy, 
with  a  pair  of  goo-goo  eyes!  She's  daughter  or  niece  or 
something" — he  boggled  the  explanation  rather — "to  the 
German  chap  who  hired  us  the  hangar  at  Drancy — if  you 
can  give  that  name  to  a  ramshackle  shed  in  a  waste  building- 
lot!  And  Davis — thundering  good  man,  but  once  on  a 
spree  ..."  He  whistled  dismally.  "  If  I  could  only  get 
my  claws  on  him !  ..." 

Here  the  uniformed  official  returned  to  the  charge. 

"  Monsieur  has  found  his  friend — Monsieur  has  explained 
the  situation.     To  enter  the  Salon  de  Danse  with  Madame 


The  Wind  of  Joy  107 

is   not   permissible — in   the   costume    Monsieur    displays. 
No  doubt  Madame  will  understand!" 

Patrine  said,  with  a  slight  catch  in  her  breath,  as  though 
some  drops  of  chilly  pleasant  perfume  had  been  suddenly 
sprayed  on  her : 

"He  supposes  ...  he  thinks  .  .  .  that  I'm  .  .  .  your 
friend!" 

"  I'll  explain. "  He  reddened,  turning  to  the  official,  say- 
"ihg  in  the  French  of  the  British  schoolboy,  laborious,  devoid 
of  colloquialisms: 

"Monsieur,  vous  n'avez  pas  compris.  Madame  die — elle 
n'etes  qu'une  Stranger e.  Pour  mon  ami,  je  ne  lui  vois.  Si 
vous  permettre  d'entrer,  peut-etre " 

"Rototo!  Voyez,  mon  blousier,  fconnais  bien  la  sorte! 
Sufficit!  Assez!  Ca  m'  fait  suer,  comprends?"  The  gold- 
braided  arm  described  a  magnificent  sweep,  the  large  white 
kid-covered  hand  indicated  remote  distance— "  5orte  .^  .  . 

The  Briton,  thus  invited  to  retire,  looked  at  Patrine. 

"I  can't  quite  follow,  but  it's  plain  he's  telling  me  to 
hook  it.     The  rest  is — pretty — strong?" 

She  nodded,  biting  her  lip. 

"Frightfully  rude.  Not  that  I  know  much  Paris  slang. 
But  a  friend  of  mine — "  She  broke  off  to  listen,  as  from 
under  the  functionary's  waxed  moustache  rattled  another 
sentence : 

"A  Vinstant,  ou  fappelle  V  sergent  d'ville!" 

"He's  talking  about  sending  for  the  police  now!"  She 
added  hastily:  "Don't  let  him  do  that!  Offer  him  a 
tip!" 

The  magic  word  must  have  been  comprehended  of  the 
braided  functionary.  He  ceased  to  fulminate.  He  waited, 
his  avid  eye  upon  the  pair.  The  lean  hatchety  face  of 
the  aviator  had  flamed  at  Patrinc's  suggestion.  He 
said: 

"Don't  you  think  I'd  have  tipped  him  in  the  beginning — 
if  I'd  had  the  wherewithal  ?     But  expenses  have  been  fright- 


io8  That  Which  Hath  Winers 

ful ! — the  waste  lot  with  the  shed  I've  stalled  the  machine  in 
costs  as  much  as  a  suite  of  rooms  at  a  decent  middle-class 
hotel  would.  Had  to  fork  rent  in  advance  too.  Pro- 
prietor's a  German  as  well  as  a  jerry-builder,  and  when  I've 
paid  his  goo-goo  girl  for  our  coffee  and  rolls  to-morrow 
morning" — the  speaker  exhibited  a  disc  of  shiny  metal 
bearing  the  classical  capped  and  oak-wreathed  head  of  the 
Republic,  value  exactly  twopence-halfpenny — "I'll  have 
just  one  of  these  blessed  tin  things  left." 

"How  rotten!"  In  the  gilt  metal  vanity-bag,  Patrine's 
inseparable  adjunct,  lurked,  in  the  company  of  a  mirror, 
powder-puff,  and  note-book,  a  tiny  white  silk  purse.  In  the 
purse  nestled  two  plump  British  half  sovereigns,  the  moiet}'' 
of  Patrine's  salary  for  the  previous  week.  "Would  you 
jump  down  my  throat  if  I  asked  you  to  let  me  finance 
you?"  she  pleaded,  an  eager  hand  in  the  depths  of  the 
receptacle.     "V/hynot?" 

"Because  I'm  a  decent  man ! "  If  he  had  been  previously 
crimson  he  was  now  scarlet  as  a  boiled  lobster.  "Thanlcs 
all  the  same,  though!  I  can't  wait  here,  even  to  catch 
Davis.  ...  I  must  bike  back  to  Drancy,  where  I've  left 
the  Bird — the  machine — in  the  German's  shed.  .  .  Not  a 
soul  to  keep  an  eye  on  her !  .  .  .  My  heart's  in  my  mouth 
when  I  think  of  what  might  hap — "  He  bit  off  the  end 
of  the  sentence  and  went  on:  "But  if  you'd  be  so  awfully 
kind  as  to  take  charge  of  this,  in  case  you  .  .  .  There's  a 
message  written  on  it.  .  .  . "  He  offered  her  a  soiled,  bent 
card. 

"I  understand.  If  I  should  chance  to  come  across  your 
Davis.  ...  A  little  man  .  .  .  looking  like  a  Welshman. 
.  .  .     But  you  haven't  told  me  whether  he's  dark  or  fair!" 

"Black  as  a  crow,"  he  told  her.  "Not  dressed  Hke 
me!"  His  well-cut  mouth  began  to  twist  upwards  at  the 
corners. 

"Quite  a  swell,  in  a  silk-faced  frock-coat,  white  vest  and 
striped  accompaniments.     A   silk  hat,   too,   rather  curly 


The  Wind  of  Joy  109 

brimmed,  but  still,  a  topper.  I  suppose  a  friend  of  the 
lady's  rented  Davis  the  kit. " 

"Of  the  lady's?  ..."  She  remembered.  "Yes,  yes! 
Of  course!  .  .  .  The  German's  appendage.  .  .  .  Why! 
.  .  .  Look !  .  .  .  Those  two  people  who  have  just  passed 
the  turn-stile  at  the  other  end  of  the  Promenade.  ...  If 
there's  anything  in  description,  here  comes  Davis  with  the 
goo-goo  girl!" 

"By — gum!  You've  nailed  me  the  pair  of  them."  As 
the  aviator's  long  strides  bore  him  down  in  the  direction  of 
the  little  sallow,  black-aviscd  mechanic  in  the  capacious 
silk-faced  frock-coat,  and  his  high-bosomed,  florid,  flaxen- 
haired  enchantress,  and  before  the  moustached  guardian  of 
the  Promenade  could  renew  his  indignant  protest,  Patrine 
had  dropped  the  little  sovereign-purse  in  his  deep,  rapacious 
hand.  And  at  that  instant  the  music  ended  with  a  crashing 
succession  of  barbaric  chords.  The  Sao  Paulo  dance  was 
done. 

"  Merci  millcfois,  Madame!  ..." 

Patrine  turned  from  the  hireling's  thanks  to  see  the  high 
head  and  powerful  square  shoulders  of  von  Herrnung  forg- 
ing towards  her,  towering  above  the  polyglot,  variegated 
crowd.     He  hailed  her  with : 

'■'So  you  met  a  friend?  Is  that  why  I  found  myself 
deserted?" 

She  answered  coldly: 

"I  did  not  desert  you — and  I  did  not  meet  a  friend." 

His  face,  still  suffused  with  a  piu-plish  flush,  pouched 
and  baggy  about  the  eyes,  told  of  the  maelstrom  of 
unhealthy  excitement  the  dance  of  the  jaguars  in  the 
jimgle  had  set  whirling  in  his  brain.  She  guessed  that 
he  had  taken  advantage  of  their  separation  to  descend 
into  the  ball-room,  and  that  as  one  of  the  spectators 
in  the  front  rank  he  had  revelled  in  the  final  thrill.  He 
persisted : 

"Was?     But  what  means  it?     I    have   lost    you.  .  .  . 


no  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

I  think  you  must  have  gone  down  into  the  ball-room  after 
your  friend.  ...  I  follow  and  you  are  not  there.  I  come 
back  to  find  you.  .  .  .  Who  was  that  dirty  bounder  I  saw 
you  talking  to?" 

"He  wasn't  a  dirty  bounder!"  His  rudeness  enraged 
her.  "He  was  a  nice,  clean,  first-class,  top-hole,  plucky 
English  boy!" 

He  sneered: 

'''Boy'  .  .  .  Men  of  forty  are  boys,  in  the  mouths  of 
you  English  ladies.  You  borrow  the  term  from  women  of 
the  street-walking  class." 

"  Then  I'll  call  him  a  man.  The  best  kind  of  man  going! 
English — from  the  top  of  his  nice  head  to  the  very  tips  of 
his  toes." 

"How  can  you  tell  if  he  was  not  a  friend  of  yours  ?  What 
do  you  know  of  him?"  He  fixed  his  eyes  compellingly  on 
hers. 

She  answerea: 

"  Nothing  but  that  he  flew  the  Channel  yesterday — with 
Davis — to  test  his  invention — and  he  has  got  to  be  on  the 
wing  for  home  at  four." 

"So!  He  has  told  you  all  this,  and  you  do  not  know  his 
name,  even?     Perhaps  it  is  on  that  card  you  hold  in  your 

hand?" 

She  started,  and  the  card  fluttered  from  her  twitching 

fingers  to  the  carpet. 

"Allow  me.  ..."  Von  Herrnung  stooped  as  though  to 
retrieve  the  bit  of  pasteboard.  "Curious!  It  has  gone! 
...     It  is  not  there!"  he  said. 

"  I  think  you  have  your  foot  on  it. "  Her  eyeballs  ached, 
she  felt  weary,  and  flat,  and  stale.  "Please  lift  up  your 
foot  and  let  me  see  if  it  is  there,"  she  urged,  and  grown 
suddenly  obtuse,  he  Hfted  up  the  wrong  foot.  She  was 
trying  to  explain  that  he  had  done  so  when  they  were 
rejoined  by  Courtley  and  Lady  Beauvayse. 

"Say,  did  you  see  she  wore  a  head-band  with  a  rubber 


The  Wind  of  Joy  in 

mouth-hold  at  the  back  of  her  neck?  And  waist-fixings 
under  her  frillies  so's  Herculano  could  swing  her  around  his 
head.  My  land!  that  man  has  jaw-power  to  whip  Teddy- 
Roosevelt,  and  she's  got  vim  enough  for  a  nest  of  rattle- 
snakes. .  .  .  Used  up,  Pat?  .  .  .  If  you  aren't,  you  look 
it!"  The  speaker  yawned  prettily:  "I'm  about  ready  to  be 
taken  back  to  by-by,  though  it's  only  two  o'clock. " 

Von  Hermung  escorted  the  wearer  of  the  green  bird  of 
paradise  as  they  went  through  dark  alleys  and  illuminated 
avenues  back  to  the  archway  with  the  blazing  crowns  and 
stars.  Courtley  accepted  the  offer  of  a  lift  back  to  the 
hotel.  The  German  declined,  saying  that  he  preferred  to 
walk,  as  the  car  was  closed. 

"Pardon!  ..."  Plis  voice  had  arrested  Morris  on  the 
point  of  starting  the  Rolls-Royce.  His  handsome  face  had 
appeared  in  the  frame  of  the  car-window.  "Excuses!  but, 
this  belongs  to  Miss  Saxham ! ' '  His  cuil  shone  white  in  the- 
semi-darkness,  the  great  magpie  pearl  on  his  little  finger 
gleamed  maliciously  as  he  dropped  the  missing  card  upon 
Patrine's  lap,  and  drew  back,  uncovered  and  smiling,  as  the 
car  moved  away.  Later  on,  when  she  was  safe  in  her  room, 
she  looked  at  the  card,  and  read  upon  it  in  plain  black 
lettering : 


ALAN  SHERBRAND, 

PILOT-INSTRUCTOR  AND  BUILDER  OF  AEROPLANES, 
FANSIIAW'S  SCHOOL  OF  FLYING. 

The  Aerodrome, 

collingwood  avenue, 
Hendon,  N.  W. 


Something  was  scrawled  in  violet  pencil  on  the  upper 
blank  space.     Being  a  girl  with  notions  about  squareness, 


112  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Patrine  would  not  at  first  read,  remembering  that  it  was  his 
private  message  to  Davis,  whom  Chance  had  brought  within 
his  master's  reach.  But  later  still,  or  earlier,  when,  after  a 
brief  interval  of  silence,  the  traffic  of  Paris  began  to  roll  over 
the  asphalt,  principle  yielded  to  impulse.  She  switched  on 
the  electric  light  above  her  pillow  and  read: 

"  This  Sarajevo  business  spells  War.  Must  get  back  at  once 
to  Hendon.  I  trust  to  your  Honour  not  to  fail  me.  You  know 
what  this  means  to  ^ 

"yl.  5." 

So  the  young  Mercury  in  gabardine  and  overalls  was  a 
professional,  a  teacher;  a  pilot  who  helped  men  to  qualify 
for  the  certificate  given  by  the  Royal  Aero  Club  without 
breaking  too  many  bones.  She  had  seen  the  big  painted 
.sign  in  the  Collingwood  Avenue,  Hendon,  that  advertised 
.Fanshaw's  Flying  School. 

.  "  /  trust  to  your  Honour,  "  he  had  written  to  his  mechanic. 
'The  word  would  have  seemed  big,  and  awful,  and  imposing, 
spelt  like  that,  with  a  capital  "  H,  "  if  the  writer  had  been  a 
gentleman. 

Disillusioned,  she  tore  the  card  into  little  pieces  and  sank 
into  a  heavy  sleep  before  the  broad  yellow  sunshine  of 
Monday  outlined  the  pink  velvet  brocade  curtains  un- 
hygienically  drawn  before  the  open  v/indows.  And  she 
dreamed,  not  of  the  magic  wind  that  had  blown  upon  her 
that  night,  nor  of  the  Mercury-like  figure  in  the  suit  of  Car- 
berry  s,  but  of  the  supple  bodies  that  had  bounded  and 
whirled,  and  of  the  gleaming  panther-fangs  that  had  clashed 
in  mid-air.  Then  the  dominant  figure  became  that  of  von 
Herrnung.  Again  the  red  mouth  under  the  tight-rolled  red 
moustache  alternately  flattered,  insulted,  and  cajoled. 
Again  she  felt  that  violation  of  her  virgin  flesh,  its  moist, 
hot  touch  upon  her  naked  shoulder.     Its  kiss  bit  and  stung. 

She  awakened  late  from  those  poisoned  dreams  to  a  riot- 


The  Wind  of  Joy  113 

ous  blaze  of  colour  and  a  breath  of  musky  fragrance.  On 
the  coffee-stand  beside  her  bed  lay  a  great  sheaf  of  long- 
stalked  roses;  deep  orange-hearted,  with  outer  petals  of 
ruddy  flame.  She  plunged  her  face  deep  into  the  flowers. 
The  corner  of  a  large  square  envelope  thrust  from  amongst 
them.  She  caught  it  between  her  teeth  and  pulled  it  out. 
It  was  from  von  Herrnung,  written  on  paper  bearing  the 
device  of  the  Societe  Aeronautique  Internationale  in  the 
Faubourg  St.  Honorc.     It  was  brief  enough. 

"  Tiiat  I  offended  yesterday,  Isis  will  pardon.  The  address 
I  promised  is — 'Atelier  Wiber,  coo,  Rue  de  la  Paix.'  The 
good  Wiber  demands  no  fee  for  making  Beauty  yet  more  beauti- 
ful.    All  has  been  arranged. 

"Devotedly, 

"T.v.  //." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

INTRODUCES  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

Saxham,  M.D.,  F.R.C.S.,  M.V.O.,  Consulting  Surgeon  to 
St.  Stephen's  and  the  Hospital  of  St.  Stanislaus  and  St. 
Teresa,  sat  busily  writing  at  the  big  leather-topped  table 
in  the  consulting-room,  that,  with  the  well-stocked  library- 
adjoining,  occupied  the  rearward  ground-floor  of  the  Harley 
Street  comer  house. 

The  hands  of  the  table-clock  pointed  to  eleven  a.m.  Since 
nine  the  doctor  had  sat  at  the  receipt  of  patients,  the  crowd 
in  the  waiting-i oom  had  melted  down  to  half  a  dozen  souls. 
Fourteen  years  had  gone  by  since  Saxham,  late  Temporary 
Captain,  R.A.M.C.,  attached  Headquarters  Staff,  H.I.M. 
Forces,  Gueldersdorp,  had  taken  over  the  lease  and  bought 
his  practice  from  the  fashionable  physician  who  had  been 
ruined  by  the  war  slump  in  South  African  mining-stocks. 

The  broken  speculator's  successor  had  struck  pay-reef 
from  the  outset.  Society  had  taken  Saxham  up  and  could 
not  afEord  to  drop  him  again.  He  was  harsh  and  unconcili- 
atory  in  manner — a  perfect  bear,  according  to  Society — but 
quite  too  frightfully  clever ;  and  as  yet  no  speedier  rival  had 
outrun  him  in  the  race. 

Now  as  the  July  sunshine,  its  fierceness  tempered  by  the 
short  curtains  of  pale  yellow  silk  that  screened  the  wide-open 
windows,  came  streaming  in  over  the  fragrant  heads  of  a 
row  of  pot-grown  rose-trees,  ranged  on  the  white-enamelled 
window-seat,  it  shone  upon  a  man  to  whom  both  Time  and 
Fortune  had  been  kind.  The  admirable  structure  of  bone, 
clothed  with  tough  muscle  and  firm  white  flesh,  had  not 
suffered  the  degrading  changes  inseparable  from  obesity. 
Nor  had  the  man  waxed  lean  and  grisly  in  proportion  as  his 

114 


Introduces   an  Old  Friend  115 

banking  account  grew  fat.  His  scholar's  stoop  bowed  the 
great  shoulders  even  more,  disguising  the  excessive  develop- 
ment of  the  throat  and  deltoid  muscles.  The  square,  pale 
face,  with  the  short  aquiline  nose  and  jutting  under-lip,  was 
close-shaven  as  of  old.  The  thickly  growing  black  hair 
was  streaked  with  silver-grey  and  tufted  with  white  upon  the 
temples.  His  loosely  fitting  clothes  of  fine  silky  black  cloth 
were  not  the  newest  cut,  neither  were  they  old-fashioned. 
They  were  suited  perfectly  to  the  man. 

While  Saxham  minutely  copied  his  prescription,  the 
patient  who  sat  facing  the  window  in  the  chair  on  the 
doctor's  left  hand  had  not  ceased  from  the  enumeration  of 
a  lengthy  catalogue  of  S3'mptoms,  peculiar  to  the  middle- 
aged,  self-indulgent,  and  tightly-laced.  At  the  close  of  a 
thrilling  description  of  after-dinner  palpitations,  she  became 
aware  that  her  hearer's  attention  had  strayed.  Following 
up  his  glance  she  ran  him  to  earth  in  one  of  three  tinted 
photographs  that  stood  in  a  triptych  frame  upon  his  writing- 
table,  and  glowed  with  an  indignation  that  tinged  with  violet 
a  plump  face  coated  with  the  latest  complexion-cream. 

" How  very  charming  your  wife  is — still!" 

The  speaker,  her  recent  character  of  patient  now  merged 
in  that  of  visitor,  plucked  down  her  veil  of  violet  gauze  with 
a  gesture  that  betrayed  her  wrath.  But  her  voice  was  care- 
fully honeyed  to  match  her  smile — as  she  continued : 

"You  have  been  married  quite  an  age,  haven't  you? " 

The  anniversary  of  her  own  second  honeymoon  was  due 
next  week.     She  went  on  answering  her  own  query : 

"Nearly  fourteen  years,  I  think?" 

Saxham  answered,  not  glancing  at  the  silver  table-al- 
manac but  at  the  threefold  photograph  frame: 

"To  be  precise,  just  fourteen  years  and  six  weeks.  We 
were  married  on  the  6th  of  June,  1900." 

"You  have  a  good  memory — for  some  things!" 

The  undisguised  resentment  in  her  tone  pulled  Saxham's 
head  round.     He  surveyed  her  with  genuine  surprise.     She 


ii6  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

bit  her  lips  and  tossed  her  head,  waggling  her  tall  feather, 
jingling  her  strings  of  turquoise  and  amber,  coral  and  onyx, 
kunzite  and  olivine,  big  blocks  of  which  semi-precious 
stones  were  being  worn  just  then,  strung  on  the  thinnest  of 
gold  chains.  Each  movement  evoked  a  whiff  of  perfume 
from  the  scanty  folds  of  her  bizarre  attire.  Her  frankly 
double  chin  quivered,  and  her  redundant  bosom,  already 
liberally  displayed  through  its  transparent  covering  of 
embroidered  chiffon,  threatened  to  burst  its  confining  bands 
of  baby-ribbon,  as  the  Doctor  said: 

"Is  it  not  natural  that  I  should  have  a  particularly 
clear  recollection  of  the  greatest  day  of  all  my  life — save 
one?" 

"You're  quite  too  killing,  Owen!" 

She  laughed  tunelessly,  clanking  her  precious  pebbles. 

"Of  course,  we  all  know  you're  fearfully  swanky  about 
your  wife's  beauty.  I  saw  her  yesterday  at  Lord's — sitting 
imder  the  awning  on  the  sunny  side,  with  the  Duchess  of 
Broads  and  Lady  Castleclare.  Your  boy  was  with  them, 
jumping  out  of  his  skin  over  Naumann's  bowling  for  Oxford. 
Really  marvellous!  Your  poor  dear  Cambridge  hadn't  a 
chance !  Tremendously  like  you  he  grows — I  mean  Bawne. 
Really,  your  very  image!" 

"I  should  prefer,"  said  Saxham,  stiffly,  "that  my  son 
resembled  his  mother." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  How  quite  too  romantic!"  She  threw 
back  her  head,  its  henna-dyed  hair  plastered  closely  about 
it  and  fastened  with  buckles  of  jade,  set  with  knobs  of  tur- 
quoise. A  kind  of  stove-pipe  of  enamel  green  velvet 
crowning  her,  was  trimmed  with  a  band  of  miniature  silk 
roses  in  addition  to  the  towering  violet  pliune.  The  pltmie, 
carefully  dishevelled  so  as  to  convey  the  impression  of  a 
recent  wetting,  threatened  the  electric  globe-lamp  spring- 
ing from  a  standard  near.  Her  crossed  legs  hberally  re- 
vealed her  stockings  of  white  silk  openwork,  patterned  with 
extra-sized  dragon-flies  in  black  chenille,  and  her  laugh 


Introduces   an  Old  Friend  117 

rattled  about  Saxham's  vexed  ears  like  Harlequin's  painted 
bladder,  full  of  little  pebbles  or  dried  peas.  "In  love  with 
your  wife — and  after  fourteen  years  and  six  weeks!"  Her 
fleshy  shoulders  shook,  and  her  opulent  bosom  heaved 
stormily.  She  passed  a  little  filmy  perfumed  handkerchief 
tinder  her  violet  gauze  veil  and  delicately  dabbed  the  corners 
of  her  eyes.  "You  remind  me  of  my  poor  David.  I  was 
always  the  one  woman  on  earth,  in  his  opinion.  To  the  last, 
he  was  jealous  of  the  slightest  reference  to  you!" 

" To  we  ?     Why  should  he  have  been? " 

Mildred — for  this  was  Saxham's  faithless  bride-elect  of 
more  than  twenty  years  previously — swallowed  her  wrath 
with  an  effort,  and  went  on  with  the  mulish  obstinacy  of  her 
type: 

"Perhaps  it  was  absurd.  But  men  in  love  are  unreason- 
able creatures,  and  David  was  perfectly  mad  where  I  was 
concerned.  He  worshipped  me  to  the  point  of  idolatry! 
He  never  could  q^idte  believe  that  I  did  not  regret  my — my 
choice — that  my  heart  did  not  sometimes  escape  from  his 
keeping  in  dreams,  and  become  yours  again,  Owen!  He 
never  really  cared  for  Patrine,  because  she  has  a  look  of 
you.  .  .  .  Absurd,  considering  that  she  was  born  two  years 
after  you  disappeared  into  South  Africa.  .  .  .  Though  of 
course  I  could  "not  truthfully  say  that  I  did  not — think  of 
you  a  great  deal!" 

It  seemed  to  the  silent  man  who  heard,  that  Mildred 
offended  against  decency.  His  soul  loathed  her.  She 
went  on: 

' '  Her  brother — my  darling  boy  who  died — was  the  very 
image  of  David ! "  Her  tone  was  even  womanly  and  tender 
in  speaking  of  the  dead  boy.  "But  Patrine — a  year 
yoiinger  — Patrine  is  really  wonderfully  like  you,  with  her 
commanding  figure  and  almost  Egyptian  profile,  those  long 
eyes  under  straight  eyebrows — and  all  those  masses  of 
dead-black  hair!"  As  Saxham  writhed  under  the  category 
she  gave  out  her  irritating  laugh  again.     "Ah! — I  forgot! 


ii8  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

When  Patrine  was  in  Paris  with  Lady  Beauvayse  for  the 
Big  Week — Lady  Beau  took  her  to  the  Atelier  Wiber — the 
famous  hairdresser's  establishment  at  coo,  Rue  de  la  Paix 
— where  they  specialise  in  Chevelures  des  Teintes  Moderne — 
all  the  newest  effects  displayed  by  stylish  mannequins — 
and  really  the  change  is  astonishing — her  sister  Irma  and 
I  hardly  knew  Patrine  when  she  came  to  see  us  at  Kensing- 
ton— looking  superb,  with  hair — one  might  almost  call 
it  terra-cotta  coloured — showing  up  her  creamy-white 
skin." 

"Do  you  tell  me  that  Patrine  has  bleached  her  splendid 
hair  and  stained  it  with  one  of  those  vile  dyes  that  are  based 
on  aniline — or  Egyptian  henna  at  the  best?" 

Mildred  retorted  acidly: 

"It  was  a  very  expensive  process.  .  .  .  Five  hundred 
francs — but  I  understand  that  Lady  Beauvayse  was  so 
good  as  to  insist  on  paying  Wiber's  charges  herself." 

Saxham  answered  brusquely: 

' '  I  would  have  given  ten  times  the  money  to  know  my 
niece's  hair  unspoiled.  Whoever  paid,  the  process  will 
prove  an  expensive  one  to  Patrine  when  she  finds  herself 
excruciated  by  headaches,  or  when  the  coloiu"  changes — 
as  it  will  by-and-by!" 

Mildred  shrugged : 

"She  can  have  it  re-dipped,  surely?  Or  let  it  return  to 
its  original  black!" 

"There  are  many  chemical  arguments  against  htunan  hair 
so  altered  returning  to  its  original  colour,  "  came  from  Sax- 
ham  grimly.  "As  these  women  who  have  made  coiffures 
of  orange,  pink,  crimson,  blue  and  green,  fashionable,  had 
previously  found  to  their  cost.  Do  you  not  realise  that 
from  mishaps  of  this  kind  resulted  the  chromatically  tinted 
heads  one  sees  at  public  functions?  Bizarre  and  strange  in 
the  electric  lights,  hideous  in  the  sun." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  Mildred's  laugh  rattled  about  the 
Doctor's  ears  like  a  shower  of  walnuts.     "I  shall  certainly 


Introduces  an  Old  Friend  119 

bring  Patrine  to  call  upon  you,  if  her  hair  happens  to  turn 
peacock-green  or  pinky-crimson.  I  would  not  miss  seeing 
your  face  for  all  the  worid!  But  seriously,  my  dear  Owen, 
when  a  girl  is  as  handsome  as  my  girl  and  has  no  dot  to 
back  her,  she  must  make  herself  attractive  and  desirable  to 
■eligible  men." 

"By  trying  to  make  herself  look  like  a  Parisian  cocotte, 
she  renders  herself  neither  attractive  nor  desirable — to  the 
kind  of  man  whom  I  should  like  to  see  married  to  my  niece. 
The  cleanly  kind  of  man,  with  wholesome  tastes,  a  sound 
constitution,  and  an  upright  character." 

"My  dear  Owen,  you  might  be  composing  an  advertise- 
ment for  a  butler  or  a  chauffeur ! " 

Mildred  ostentatiously  controlled  a  yawn  as  the  Doctor 
continued: 

"As  to  a  provision  for  Patrine  on  her  marriage,  you 
know  that  I  shall  gladly  give  it.  Of  course,  upon  condi- 
tion  

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  what  your  condition  would  be!" 
Mildred's  finger-tips,  adorned  with  nails  elaborately 
veneered  and  dyed,  drammed  a  maddening  little  tattoo  on 
the  table-ledge.  "That  she  marries  the  'right  kind  of  man, 
with  wholesome  tastes, '  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  The  question 
is — would  Patrine  be  able  to  endure  him?  She  is — let  us 
say — more  than  a  little  difficult  to  get  on  with — and  essenti- 
ally an  independent,  up-to-date  girl." 

"If  Patrine  would  have  subdued  her  ideas  about  inde- 
pendence and  given  up  this  idea  of  taking  a  place  as  salaried 
companion,  I  would  have  welcomed  her,  and  so  would  my 
wife!" 

"  Patrine  is — as  you  are  very  well  aware — something  very 
different  to  a  mere  companion.  She  is  reader  and  secretary 
to  Lady  Beauvayse.  Her  Club  subscription  is  paid,  she 
moves  there  amongst  gentlewomen,  and  is  treated  at 
Berkeley  Square  exactly  like  a  favoured  guest.  You 
•should    see    the     presents    Lady    Beauvayse     absolutely 


I20  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

showers  upon  her — and  she  gets  all  her  expenses  and  a 
hundred  a  year." 

Saxham  was  silent.  Patrine  might  have  had  all  this  and 
much  more,  if  she  would  have  accepted  the  home  he  offered. 
Not  only  because  she  was  his  niece,  but  the  girl  was  dear  to 
him.  His  wife  loved  her,  and  in  her  strange,  wild  way 
Patrine  returned  some  measure  of  Lynette's  tenderness. 

"She  is  worth  loving,"  Lynette  had  told  her  husband. 
**She  has  a  generous,  brave,  independent  nature  and  a  deep 
heart.  She  is  not  easily  won  because  she  is  so  well  worth 
winning.  Ah!  if  the  Mother  were  only  with  us,  how  well 
she  would  understand  and  help  Patrine!" 

But  Mildred  had  risen  to  depart.  Saxham  rose  too,  not 
without  alacrity,  and  taking  her  offered  hand,  pressed  it  and 
let  it  fall  to  her  side. 

"Well,  good-bye.  My  kind  regards  to  Captain  Dyne- 
ham."  He  referred  to  the  second  legal  possessor  of  i^Iil- 
dred's  once  coveted  charms.  "When  can  I  dine  with  you 
at  Kensington,  do  you  ask?  I  fear  I  have  very  few  oppor- 
tunities for  sociality.  Some  day!  .  .  .  Tell  Patrine  to 
come  and  see  me.  Half-past  one  o'clock  to-morrow. 
Lunch  after  my  scolding — and  a  chat  with  Lynette." 

"You  are  extremely  kind  to  Patrine."  jMildred's  tone 
was  sweetly  venomous.  "But  I  fear  just  at  present  she  has 
Httle  time  to  spare.  Men  in  love  are  so  exacting.  Dear 
me,  what  a  feather-brained  creature  I  am!  .  .  .  Haven't  I 
told  you  about  Count  von  Herrnung?" 

"You  have  told  me  nothing,"  said  Saxham,  "and  you 
know  it.     Who  and  what  is  the  man? " 

Mildred  said  with  a  great  air  of  dignity: 

"He  is  a  distinguished  officer  of  the  Prussian  Flying 
Service,  the  son  and  heir  of  a  high  official  in  the  German 
Foreign  Office.  He  holds  the  rank  of  Count  by  courtesy. 
I  assure  you  I  never  met  a  more  agreeable  young  man." 

"  Even  were  he  all  that  you  say,  and  more,  and  even  while 
I  regard  the  German  Army  as  a  marvel  of  organisation  and 


Introduces  an  Old  Friend  121 

efi&ciency — I  should  not,  knowing  the  type  of  man  that  is  the 
product  of  their  military  system,  desire  my  niece  to  marry 
a  German  officer." 

Mildred  mocked : 

"'Marry' — who  said  anything  about  marriage?  .  .  . 
When  they  have  not  known  each  other  for  a  month.  Not " 
— her  tone  became  sentimental — "that  I  am  a  disbeliever 
in  love  at  first  sight.  No  one  could  doubt  that  Patrine  is 
attracted,  and  he — the  Count" — she  dropped  her  eyelids — 
"is  simply  too  fearfully  gone  for  words.  Absolutely  dead- 
nuts!" 

"'Gone.'  .  .  .  'Dead-nuts.'  .  .  ." 

"  I  give  you  my  word.  Entangled  hopelessly.  '  What  a 
captive  to  lead  in  chains,'  I  said  to  Patrine — he  is  quite  six 
feet  in  height  or  over,  and  has  the  most  perfect  features; 
simply  magnificent  eyes,  the  most  fascinating  manner,  and 
the  build  of  a  Greek  athlete.  He  is  staying  at  the  '  Tarlton, ' 
and  I  must  say  Lady  Beauvayse  is  extremely  sympathetic. 
For  since  they  came  back  from  Paris  together  the  Count  has 
been  taking  Patrine  about  everywhere.  She  can  hardly 
have  had  a  glimpse  of  my  gay  girl.  .  .  .  Dinners,  theatres, 
the  opera,  and  heaven  knows  what  else,  they  have  crowded 
into  the  week!"  The  smiling  speaker  shrugged  her  ample 
shoulders.  "To  say  nothing  of  cabaret  suppers  and  dances. 
He  even  promises  to  take  her  to  the  famous  'Upas  Club.' 
Wonderful,  by  all  accounts.  They  say  the  French  Regency 
came  nowhere  near  it.  Dancing  in  the  Hall  of  the  Hun- 
dred Pillars,  a  simply  wonderful  three  a.m.  supper,  and 
champagne  of  the  most  expensive  brands,  served  up  in 
gold-mounted  crystal  jugs." 

"Can  it  be  possible?  .  .  ."  broke  from  Saxham.  "Are 
you  mad,  that  you  countenance  this  German  in  taking 
Patrine  to  such  an  infamous  place?" 

"'Infamous!'  Really,  Owen,  your  notions  are  too  old- 
fashioned  for  anything."  Her  laughter  broke  out,  and  her 
chains  and  bangles  jingled  an  accompaniment.     "  Do, "  she 


122  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

urged, ' '  come  out  of  your  shell.  Dine  with  us  on  Thursday. 
We  have  a  box  for  the  'Ministers'  Theatre.  We'll  go  on, 
you  and  I,  George  and  Irma,  from  there  to  the  cabaret 
supper  at  the  'Rocroy.'  We  can't  afford  the  'Upas,'  the 
subscription  is  too  fearfully  prohibitive.  But  the  enter- 
tainment at  the  'Rocroy'  is  really  chic — the  dancing  is  as 
good — everyone  says — as  they  have  it  at  Maxim's.  Do 
come !  Of  course,  you  can  trust  us  not  to  blab  to  your  wife ! 
Mercy!  how  severe  you  look!"  Her  tone  changed,  became 
wheedling,  her  made-up  eyes  languished  tenderly.  "Odd! 
how  we  poor,  silly  women  prefer  the  men  who  bully  us. 
Come!  One  chance  more.  Dine  Thursday  and  see 
'Squiffed'  at  the  'Ministers' — try  a  whiff  of  Paris  at  the 
'Rocroy'  after  midnight,  'twill  buck  you  up  like  nothing 
else — take  my  word!     Won't  you?" 

"I  will  not!" 

"Why  not?" 

"I  have  told  you  why  not.  Because  these  places  are 
centres  of  corruption,  schools  for  the  inculcation  and 
practice  of  vice  in  every  form.  Men  and  women,  young  or 
old,  those  who  take  part  in  or  witness  one  of  these  loathsome 
dances,  hot  and  reeking  from  the  brothels  and  voodoo- 
houses  of  Cuba  and  the  Argentine  are  equally  degraded.  I 
had  rather  see  my  niece  Patrine  dead  and  in  her  coffin  than 
know  her  capable  of  appreciating  such  abominable  exhibi- 
tions, pernicious  in  their  effects,  as  I,  and  others  of  my 
profession  have  grave  reason  to  know! — ruinous  in  their 
results  to  body,  mind,  and  soul!" 

"Intolerable!" 

Her  plump,  middle-aged  face  was  leaden  grey  beneath  her 
violet  veil  as  she  screamed  at  him: 

"You  have  insulted  me!  Horribly— abominably!  .  .  . 
How  dare  you  tell  me  that  I  frequent  infamous  places,  and 
encourage  my  daughter  to  visit  schools  of  vice '  And  it  is 
not  for  Irma  you  are  so  rottenly  scrupulous,  but  for  Patrine, 
vour  wife's  favourite!     Who  will  do  as  she  pleases,  and 


Introduces  an  Old  Friend  123 

marry  whom  she  prefers  without  'by  your  leave'  or  with 
mine!  She  is  a  mule  for  self-will  and  obstinacy — another 
point  of  resemblance  to  yourself !  ..." 

He  had  recovered  his  stern  self-possession.  His  face  was 
granite  as  he  said: 

"I  have  not  insulted  you,  but  if  you  will  set  no  example 
to  your  daughters  in  avoiding  these  evils,  it  is  my  duty  to 
expostulate." 

She  reared  like  an  angry  cobra,  then  spat  her  jet  of 
scalding  venom. 

"  I  take  leave  to  think  my  present  example  quite  harmless 
to  Irma  and  Patrine.  Now  yours — of  a  few  years  ago — was 
certainly  calculated  to  damage  the  bodily  and  worldly 
prospects  of  your  son."  She  added,  as  Saxham  silently  put 
out  his  hand  to  touch  the  bell :  "No!  please  don't  ring.  I 
know  my  way  out.  Good-morning.  .  .  .  Pray  remember 
me  to  Bawne  and  your  wife!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


SAXHAM  PAYS 


Thus,  having  shot  her  bolt,  Mildred  departed.  The  Dop 
Doctor  standing  in  the  open  doorway,  watched  the  gaily- 
accoutred,  middle-aged  figure  in  the  peg-top  gkirt  and 
houffante  tunic  of  green  taffeta  patterned  with  a  violet 
grape-vine,  moving  down  the  white-panelled  corridor. 

Saxham  watched  her  out  of  sight  before  he  shut  the  door 
and  went  back  to  his  chair.  There  he  sat  thinking.  .  .  . 
No  one  would  disturb  the  Doctor  until  he  touched  his 
electric  bell. 

Ah!  if  the  truth  were  told,  not  all  of  us  find  solace  in  the 
thought  that  in  the  niches  of  Heaven  are  safely  stored  our 
ancient  idols.  To  Owen  Saxham  it  was  gall  and  verjuice  to 
remember  that  for  love  of  this  woman,  weak,  vain,  silly, 
spiteful,  he,  the  man  of  intellect  and  knowledge,  had  gone 
down,  quick,  to  the  very  verge  of  Hell. 

Mildred  was  just  eighteen  when  he  had  wooed  and  won 
her.  She  had  been  slight  and  willowy  and  pale,  with  round, 
surprised  brown  eyes,  an  indeterminate  nose,  and  a  little 
mouth  of  the  rosebud  kind.  Her  neck  had  been  long  and 
swanlike,  her  waist  long  and  slim,  her  hands  and  feet  long 
and  narrow.  He  had  desired  her  with  all  the  indiscriminat- 
ing  passion  of  early  manhood.  He  had  planned  to  pass  his 
life  by  her  side.  He  had  hoped  that  she  might  bear  him 
children — he  had  wrought  in  a  frenzy  of  intellectual  and 
physical  endeavour  to  take  rank  in  his  chosen  profession, 
that  Success  might  make  life  sweeter  for  Mildred — his  wife. 

She  had  seemed  to  love  him,  and  he  had  been  happy  in 
that  seeming.  Then  the  shadow  of  a  tragic  error  had  fallen 
blackly  across  his  path.     From  the  omission  to  copy  in  his 

124 


Saxham  Pays  125 

memorandum-book  a  prescription  made  up  by  himself  in  a 
sudden  emergency  had  sprung  the  branding  suspicion  that 
culminated  in  the  Old  Bailey  Criminal  Case  of  the  Crown  v. 
Saxham.  His  acquittal  restored  to  him  freedom  of  move- 
ment .  He  left  the  Court  without  a  stain  on  his  professional 
reputation,  but  socially  and  financially  a  ruined  man. 

Friends  and  patients  fell  away  from  Saxham — acquaint- 
ances dropped  him.  Mildred — his  Mildred — was  one  of 
the  rats  that  scurried  from  the  sinking  ship.  She  had 
thrown  him  over  and  married  David,  his  brother.  Her 
betrayal  had  been  the  wreath  of  nightshade  crowning  Sax- 
ham's  cup  of  woe.  Those  vertical  lines  graven  on  his. 
broad  white  forehead,  those  others  that  descended  from  the 
outer  angles  of  the  deep-cut  nostrils  to  the  corners  of  that 
stem  mouth  of  his,  and  yet  those  others  at  the  angles  of  the 
lower  jaw,  were  chiefly  Mildred's  handiwork.  They  told 
of  past  excess,  a  desperate  effort  to  drown  Memory  and 
hasten  longed-for  death  on  the  part  of  a  man  who  had 
quarrelled  with  his  God. 

The  demons  of  pride  and  self-will,  defiance  and  scorn  had 
been  cast  out.  An  ordeal  such  as  few  men  are  called  upon 
to  endure  had  purified,  cleansed,  and  regenerated  the  drunk- 
ard. Friendship  had  taken  the  desperate  man  by  the  hand, 
plucked  his  feet  from  the  morass,  led  him  into  the  light  and 
set  his  feet  once  more  on  firm  ground.  His  profession  was 
his  again  to  follow.  Love,  real  love,  had  come  to  him  and 
folded  her  rose-white  wings  beside  his  hearth. 

Years  of  pure  domestic  happiness,  of  successful  work,  had 
passed,  and  now — the  July  sunshine  had  no  warmth  in  it,, 
though  it  streamed  in  through  the  open  window  over  the 
tops  of  the  pot-roses.  The  Dop  Doctor's  head  was  bowed 
upon  his  hands,  his  great  shoulders  shook  as  though  he 
strove  with  a  mortal  rigour,  the  wood  of  the  table  where  his 
elbows  leaned,  the  boards  beneath  the  thick  carpet  on  which 
his  feet  rested,  creaked  as  the  long  shudders  convulsed  him 
at  intervals. 


126  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

It  had  seemed  to  Saxham — in  whom  the  seed  of  Faith  had 
germinated  and  put  forth  leaves  in  one  great  night  of  storm 
following  upon  years  of  arid  dryness — that  Almighty  God 
must  have  forgiven  those  five  worse  than  wasted  years. 

Fool!  he  now  cried  in  his  heart.  The  Divine  Mercy  is 
boundless  as  the  ocean  of  air  in  which  our  planet  swims,  and 
for  the  cleansing  of  our  spotted  souls  the  Blood  of  the  Re- 
deemer flowed  on  Calvary.  But  He  who  said  in  His  wrath 
that  the  sins  of  the  fathers  should  be  visited  on  the  children, 
does  not  break,  even  for  those  repentant  prodigals  whom  He 
has  taken  to  His  Heart  again — the  immutable  laws  of  Na- 
ture. Nature,  of  all  forces  most  conservative,  wastes  no- 
thing, loses  nothing,  pardons  nothing,  avenges  everything. 

The  shouted  curse,  like  the  whispered  blessing,  is  carried 
on  the  invisible  wings  of  Air  forever.  Thus,  the  deformed 
limb,  the  devouring  cancer,  the  loathsome  ulcer,  and  the 
degrading  vice,  are  perpetuated  and  reproduced  as  diligently 
and  faithfully  as  the  beautiful  feature,  the  noble  quality, 
the  wit  that  charms,  the  genius  that  dominates.  Nay,  since 
Nature  turns  out  some  millions  of  fools  to  one  Dante  or 
Shakespeare  or  Molidre  or  Cervantes,  it  would  appear  that 
she  prefers  the  fools. 

So  it  is.  Divine  Grace  has  reached  and  saved  the  sinner. 
The  ugly  vice,  the  base  appetite,  have  been  eradicated  by 
prayer  and  mortification,  by  years  of  self-control  and  watch- 
fulness. Free  will,  moral  and  physical  force,  self-command 
and  self-respect  are  yours  again.  And  with  sobs  of  grati- 
tude the  erstwhile  slave  of  Hell  gives  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Saved.  Cured.  Great  words  and  true  in  Saxham's  case 
as. in  many  others.  But  though  they  are  saved  and  cured 
they  cannot  ever  forget.  Their  eyes  have  a  characteristic 
look  of  alert,  suspicious  watchfulness.  For  wheresoever 
they  move  about  the  world,  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  what  is 
called  Society,  in  the  business  circles  of  the  City,  in  the 
barracks  or  the  mining-camp,  on  the  ship's  heaving  deck  or 
the  floor  of  the  Pullman  carriage;  amidst  the  sands  of  the 


Saxham  Pays  127 

Desert  or  the  golden-rod  of  the  prairie,  or  the  red  sand  and 
dry  karroo  scrub  of  the  lone  veld,  they  will  hear,  when  they 
least  expect  it,  the  thin,  shrill  hiss  of  the  Asp  that  once  bit 
them  to  the  bone.  Or  supposing  that  they  have  forgotten 
in  reality — so  cleverly  has  the  world  pretended  to! — with 
what  a  pang  of  mortal  anguish  Memory  awakens.  When 
you  recognise  the  devil  that  once  entered  and  possessed  you, 
looking  out  of  the  eyes  of  your  child. 

When  Saxham  lifted  up  his  ashen  face  and  looked  at  the 
portrait  in  the  third  leaf  of  the  triptych  frame  and  met  the 
clear,  candid  gaze  of  his  son's  blue  eyes,  you  know  what  he 
was  seeking,  and  praying  not  to  find. 

To  have  given  Lynette  a  drunkard  for  her  son  would  be 
the  most  terrible  penalty  that  could  be  exacted  by  merciless 
Nature  for  those  five  sodden,  wasted  years. 

Ah!  to  have  had  a  clean,  unspotted  life  to  share  with 
Bawne's  fair  mother.  That  his  priceless  pearl  of  woman- 
hood should  gleam  upon  a  drunkard's  hand — his  spotless 
Convent  lily  have  opened  to  fullest  bloom  in  a  drunkard's 
holding,  had  been  from  the  outset  of  their  married  life, 
verjuice  in  Saxham's  cup  by  day,  and  a  thorn  in  his  pillow 
by  night. 

But  never  before  had  it  occurred  to  the  man  of  science,  the 
great  surgeon,  the  learned  biologist,  that  relentless  Nature 
might  be  saving  up  for  him,  Saxham,  a  special  rod  in  saltest 
brine. 

Bawne.  .  .  .  He  sat  in  silence  with  set  teeth,  asking 
himself  the  bitter  question: 

"How  could  I  have  forgotten — Bawne?" 


CHAPTER   XIX 


BAWNE 


As  so  often  happens,  the  thought  of  the  beloved  heralded 
his  well-known  thump  upon  the  door-panel.  When  had  the 
Dop  Doctor  ever  cried,  ' '  Come  in ! "  with  such  a  leaden  sink- 
ing of  the  heart? 

The  boy  who  came  in  was  alert,  upright,  slim,  and  strong 
for  his  twelve  years.  You  saw  him  attired  in  the  dress  with 
which  we  are  all  familiar — the  loose  shirt  of  khaki-brown, 
with  its  knotted  silk  neckerchief  of  dark  blue,  the  lanyards 
ending  in  clasp-knife  and  whistle,  the  roomy  shorts  upheld 
by  a  brown  leather  pouch-belt  supporting  a  serviceable  axe, 
the  dark  blue  stockings  turned  over  at  the  knee,  fitting  close 
to  the  slim  muscular  legs,  the  light  strong  shoes,  the  brown 
smasher  hat  with  the  chin-strap,  completed  the  picture  of  a 
Scout  of  whom  no  patrol  need  be  ashamed.  He  carried  his 
light  staff  at  the  trail,  and  entering,  brought  it  to  an  up- 
right position,  and  saluted  smartly.  The  salute  formally 
acknowledged,  became  straight  to  the  table  and  stood  at 
his  father's  elbow,  waiting,  as  Saxham  feigned  to  blot  a 
written  line.  Outwardly  composed,  the  drumming  of 
the  man's  heart  deafened  him,  and  a  mist  before  his 
eyes  blurred  the  page  they  were  bent  upon.  Fatherhood 
gripped  him  by  the  throat  as  in  the  first  moment  of  his 
son's  separate  existence.  A  thing  we  prize  is  never  so  poig- 
nantly precious  as  when  we  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
its  ruin  or  loss. 

"Father,  you  aren't  generally  pleased  when  I  come 
bothering  you  in  consulting  hours,  but  this  time  it  is  really 
serious  business,  no  kid,  and  Honour  bright!" 

Saxham  answered  with  equal  gravity: 

128 


Bawne  129 

"If  you  have  a  reasonable  excuse  for  coming,  I  have  said 
that  you  may  come.  " 

The  boy  was  Hke  him.  You  saw  it  as  he  stood  waiting. 
The  vivid  gentian-blue  eyes  were  Saxham's,  as  were  the 
thick  throat  and  prominent  under-jaw  and  the  square  facial 
outline.  But  the  plume  of  hair  that  swept  over  the  broad 
forehead  was  red-brown  like  Lynette's.  The  delicate,  ir- 
regular profile  and  a  sensitive  sweetness  about  the  lips 
were  gifts  from  his  mother.  The  directness  of  his  look,  and 
the  tinge  of  brusqueness  in  his  speech  were  unconsciously 
modelled  on  the  father's,  as  he  said,  sacrificing  sufficient  of 
manly  independence  to  come  within  the  curve  of  the  Doc- 
tor's strong  arm: 

"First,  I  wanted  to  show  you  my  new  badge.  " 

Saxham's  left  hand  squeezed  the  arm  most  distant  from 
him,  where  a  familiar  device  was  displayed  upon  the  sleeve, 
midway,  between  the  shoulder  and  elbow,  below  the  six-inch 
length  of  colours  distinctive  of  this  Scout's  Patrol. 

"Turn  round  and  show  it,  then!" 

"Father,  you're  larking.  That's  my  General  Scout 
Badge.  I've  had  it  ever  since  I  passed  my  Second  Class 
tests.  Before  then,  you  know,  when  I  was  a  Tenderfoot, 
I'd  only  the  top-part — the  fleur-de-lis  without  the  motto, 
and  you  wear  that  in  your  left  pocket  button-hole.  But 
this  is  something  special,  don't  you  see?" 

Saxham  eyed  the  row  of  little  enamelled  circles  on  the 
sleeve  next  him  with  respectful  gravity.  The  boy  went  on, 
trying  to  control  the  gleeful  tremor.in  his  voice: 

"I've  got  the  Ambulance  Badge! — look  at  the  Geneva 
Cross! — and  the  Signaller's  Badge — this  is  it — with  the 
crossed  flags — and  the  Interpreter's  Badge — the  one  with 
the  two  hands  holding.  But  this  is  the  very  latest.  Our 
Scoutmaster  gave  it  to  me  after  parade  to-day.  It's  the 
Airman's  Badge — "  He  caught  his  breath,  the  secret  was 
coming  in  a  moment.  .  .  .  He  went  on :  "  To  get  it  j'ou 
must  have  made  a  model  aeroplane.     Not  a  flying-stick. 


130  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

any  kid  of  nine  can  make  one — ^but  a  model  that  will  really 
fly.  That's  my  special  reason  for  coming.  Mother  was 
out — and — and  next  to  her  I  wanted  to  tell  you ! " 

' '  And  next  after  me  ? ' ' 

The  boy  considered  a  moment  before  he  looked  up  to 
answer : 

"  Cousin  Pat,  because  she  can  keep  a  secret  so  tightly. " 

Saxham  patted  the  sturdy  square  shoulders. 

"You  are  fond  of  Cousin  Patrine,  aren't  you? " 

"Rather!" 

"Just  tell  me  why?" 

"Because" — the  young  brows  were  puckered — "because 
she's  so  big  and  so — beautiful.  And  she'd  just  die  for  you 
and  Mother.  .  .  .  She  comes  in  my  prayers  next  after 
you  two." 

"And— the  Chief  Scout?" 

"Father,  wouldn't  it  be — a  bit  cheeky  to  go  and  pray  for 
a  man  like  that  ? ' ' 

A  spark  of  laughter  wakened  in  Saxham's  sombre  eyes. 

"Not  quite  respectful,  you  think?  Is  that  it?  Why  so, 
when  you're  taught  to  pray  for  the  Holy  Father,  Mother 
Church,  and  the  King  and  Queen?" 

The  boy's  puckered  brows  smoothed.  The  question  was 
settled. 

"Of  course.  I  forgot.  Then  the  Chief  Scout  must  come 
in  after  Cousin  Patrine.  Because  a  gentleman  must  always 
give  place  to  a  lady.     That's  what  Mother  says." 

"  Suppose  Cousin  Patrine  never  came  to  see  you  any  more, 
what  would  you  do  then? " 

Bawne  straightened  the  sturdy  body  and  proclaimed: 

"  I  would  go  and  find  her  and  bring  her  back!" 

"Suppose  she  did  not  want  to  come?" 

Bawne  said  instantly : 

"I  would  tell  her  Mother  was  wanting  her.  For  Mother 
would  be,  you  know.  And  Cousin  Pat  wouldn't  keep  her 
waiting.     Not  much,  sir,  she  wouldn't!" 


Bawne  131 

"She  cares  so?" 

"Doesn't  she!  Why,  have  you  forgotten  when  I  was  a 
little  shaver  and  Mother  was  so  ill? " 

Saxham,  with  a  certain  tightening  of  the  muscles  of  the 
throat,  recalled  the  wan,  red-eyed  spectre  that  had  haunted 
the  landing  outside  the  guarded  bedroom  where  Lynette  lay, 
white  and  strengthless,  while  her  husband  fought  for  her 
with  Death. 

"Well,  well.  Go  on  loving  Patrine  and  praying  for  her! 
Now  tell  me  of  your  model. " 

"The  boy  said,  controlling  his  exultation: 

"It  has  to  be  left  at  our  District  Headquarters  until 
to-morrow.  You  see — it's  rather  a  special  affair.  It's  not 
a  flying  stick,  like  the  things  I  used  to  make  when  I  was  a 
shaver,  nor  a  glider — you  see  men  in  spectacles  flying  those 
every  day  to  please  the  kids  on  Hampstead  Heath  and  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  but  a  model  of  a  Bristol  monoplane 
with  a  span  of  thirty  inches,  and  a  main-plane-area  of  a 
hundred  and  fifty" — he  caught  his  breath  and  with  diffi- 
culty kept  his  eager  words  from  tumbling  over  one  another 
as  he  reached  the  thrilling  climax — "and  I  built  up  her 
fuselage  with  cardboard  and  sticking-plaster  out  of  the  First 
Aid  case  you  gave  me  to  carry  in  my  belt-pouch,  and  cut 
the  propeller  out  of  a  tin  to}'  engine  I've  had  ever  since  I  was 
a  kid — and  made  the  planes  of  big  sheets  of  stiff  foolscap 
strengthened  with  thin  strips  of  glued  wood,  and  her  spars, 
sir! — the  upright  ones  are  quills,  and  her  stays  and  struts 
I  made  of  copper  wire  and  she's  weighted  with  lead  ribbon 
like  what  you  wrap  about  the  gut  when  you're  bottom- 
fishing  for  tench  or  barbel — and  her  motor-power  is  eighteen 
inches  of  square  elastic  twisted — and  father" — he  broke 
into  a  war-dance  of  ecstasy  unrestrained — "when  Roddy 
Wrynche  and  me  went  on  a  secret  expedition  to  Primrose 
Hill  to  test  her — she  flew,  sir !     First  go-off — by  George ! ' ' 

"Really  flew?   .    .    .     You  are  certain?" 

"Upon  my  life,   sir,   and  that's  my  Honour.     Scout's 


132  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Honour  and  life  are  the  same  thing.  That's  what  the  Oath 
rubs  into  us."  He  squared  his  shoulders  and  lowered  his 
voice  as  a  boy  speaking  of  high  matters  that  must  be  dealt 
with  reverently.  "I  think  it's — ripping.  I  can  say  it. 
Would  you  like  me  to?" 

Saxham  nodded  without  speaking,  because  of  that  chok- 
ing something  sticking  in  his  throat.  That  something  Lear 
called  ' '  the  mother. ' '  And,  dammed  away  behind  his  eyes, 
were  scalding  tears  that  only  men  may  shed.  As  the  young 
voice  said: 

"On  my  Honour  I  promise  that  I  will  do  my  best  to  be 
loyal  to  God  and  the  King. 

"On  my  Honour  I  promise  that  I  will  do  my  best  to  Help 
other  people  at  all  times. 

"  On  my  Honour  I  promise  that  I  will  do  my  best  to  obey 
the  Scout  Law.  .  .  .  You  see" — the  boyish  arm  was  on 
Saxham's  shoulder  now,  the  ruddy-fair  cheek  pressed  against 
the  pale,  close-shaven  face — "you  see.  Father,  when  a  Scout 
says  '  On  my  Honour '  it's  just  as  if  he  sv/ore  on  the  Crucifix ! ' ' 

Saxham  said,  crushing  down  the  fierce  emotion  that  had 
almost  mastered  Wm : 

"It  is — just  the  same!  For  the  man  who  breaks  a  pro- 
mise will  never  keep  an  oath.  .  .  .  I  have  a  friend  of  whom 
I  have  told  you.  ...  I  think  he  would  like  to  hear  about 
your  model  aeroplane.  .  .  .  May  I  tell  him,  or  would  you 
prefer  to  tell  him  yourself? " 

Bawne's  fair  face  glowed.     He  gasped  in  ecstasy : 

"Father.  .  .  .  You  mean  Mr.  Sherbrand — your  Flying 
Man  who's  in  the  Hospital?" 

"My  Flying  Man — but  he  is  well  again  and  back  at  work 
at  Hendon.  There  was  not  much  the  matter  with  him;  a 
slight  obstruction  in  one  of  the  nasal  passages  that  prevented 
him  from  breathing  with  his  mouth  shut  as  he  should.  Now 
he  has  asked  me — this  afternoon  if  I  am  at  leisure — to 
bring  my  little  son  to  the  aerodrome  and  see  him  make 
a  flight." 


Bawne  133 

' '  And  go  up  in  his  aeroplane  with  him  ?  Father,  say  Yes ! 
Do,  please  do!" 

As  the  little  figure  bobbed  up  and  down  beside  him  in 
joyous  excitement,  Saxham  answered,  not  without  an  in- 
ward tug : 

"If  your  mother  says  '  Yes '  I  shall  not  say  No !  Now  off 
with  you,  my  son!" 

The  bo}^  saluted  and  went.  Even  his  bright  obedience 
wrung  his  father's  heart.  The  man  looked  haggard  and  old. 
He  hid  his  careworn  face  in  his  hands  for  a  minute.  His 
lips  were  still  moving  when  he  looked  up  and  made  the  Sign 
so  well  known  to  many  of  us  upon  his  forehead  and  breast. 
Prayer,  that  most  powerful  of  all  therapeutic  agents,  so  often 
prescribed  by  Saxham  for  his  patients,  was  his  own  tonic  and 
sedative  in  moments  of  bodily  exhaustion  and  mental  over- 
strain. 

He  had  prayed,  he,  the  sceptic,  on  that  unforgettable 
night  at  Gueldersdorp,  when  he  wrestled  with  his  possessing 
fiend.  .  .  .  Lynette  had  taught  him  the  habit  of  prayer. 
And  even  as  she,  a  friendless,  neglected  waif,  had  learned  to 
look  up  and  see  the  shining  Faces  of  our  Divine  Redeemer 
and  His  Virgin  Mother  through  the  features  of  a  pure  and 
tender  woman;  so  her  husband,  looking  in  the  eyes  of  Lyn- 
ette, had  found  the  gift  of  Faith  lost  years  before. 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Prayer!"  you  say— "Faith!"  ...  and  I 
see  you  shrug  and  sneer  a  little,  you  who  are  intellectual  and 
highly  educated,  and  have  ceased  to  believe  in  what  you 
term  the  Hebraic  myth  or  the  Christian  legend — since  you 
learned  to  point  out  the  weak  places  in  the  First  Book  of 
Genesis,  and  sneer  at  the  discrepancies  between  the  state- 
ments of  the  Gospel  narrators — though  you  will  hear  such 
testimonies  sworn  to  in  good  faith,  wherever  witnesses  are 
examined  in  a  Court  of  Law. 

But  no !  you  tell  me,  you  are  not  an  Agnostic.  You  credit 
the  existence  of  Almighty  God,  but  prayer  is  the  parson's 
affair.    Well,  because  a  man  wears  a  straight  black  coat, 


134  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

will  you  abandon  to  him  so  inestimable  a  privilege?  Is  it 
not  a  marvellous  thing  that  you  or  I  should  lift  up  our  earth- 
made,  earth-begrimed  hands,  and  that  He  who  set  this  tiny 
planet  to  spin  out  its  aeons  of  cycles  amidst  the  innumerable 
millions  of  systems  wheeling  through  His  Universe  should 
stoop  to  hear  the  words  we  utter?  Feeble  cries,  drowned 
by  the  orchestras  of  the  winds,  and  the  chorus  of  the  Spheres 
revolving  in  their  orbits,  or  silent  utterances  imperceptible 
to  any  Ear  save  His  alone. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE   MODERN   HIPPOCRATES 

Patients  rapidly  succeeded  one  another  in  the  chair  that 
faced  the  window.  There  were  confirmed  invalids  who  were 
really  healthy  men  and  women,  and  certain  others  who  came 
in  smilingly  to  talk  about  the  weather  and  the  newest  Rus- 
sian Opera,  who  bore  upon  their  faces  the  unmistakable 
stamp  of  mortal  disease.  The  wife  or  the  husband,  the 
father  or  the  mother  had  worried  for  nothing.  .  .  .  Would 
the  Doctor  prescribe  a  little  tonic  to  buck  them,  or  the  sur- 
geon alleviate  a  Httle  trouble  of  the  local  kind?  Really 
nothing — but — Death's  knock  at  the  door.  And  there  were 
cases — open  or  unacknowledged — of  the  liquor-habit  and 
the  drug-mania.  To  these,  instead  of  dropping  out  bromide 
of  potassium  and  throwing  in  the  chloral  hydrates  with 
strychnine  and  the  chloride  of  the  metal  that  is  crushed  and 
assayed  out  of  the  quartz  reef  near  Johannesburg,  or  pick- 
axed out  of  the  frozen  ground  of  the  Klondyke,  Saxham 
dealt  out  that  savage  tonic  Truth,  in  ladlesful. 

The  secret  dipsomaniac  or  druggard  could  not  deceive 
this  man's  keen  scrutiny,  or  escape  his  unerring  diagnosis. 
When,  beaten,  they  admitted  the  fact,  Saxham  said  to  them 
as  to  the  others : 

' '  You  say  you  cannot  conquer  the  craving.  I  myself  once 
thought  so.  Your  moral  power  can  be  restored,  even  as  was 
mine.  In  your  case  the  habit  is  barely  as  ingrained  as  in 
the  case  I  quote  to  you.  I  drank  alcohol  to  excess  for  a 
period  of  five  years. " 

Some  of  the  sufferers — elderly  women  and  mild-mannered 
old  gentlemen — were  horrified.  Others  thought  such  can- 
dour brutal — but  attractively  so.    Yet  others  responded  to 

135 


136  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  sympathy  masked  by  the  stern,  impassive  face,  and  the 
blunt,  brusque  manner. 

"At  any  rate  the  man's  no  humbug!"  such  and  such  an 
one  would  stutter.  "And  seems  to  have  any  amount  of 
Will.  Think  I  shall  put  myself  in  his  hands  for  a  bit." 
Adding  with  a  rueful  twinkle :  "  He  knows  how  the  dog  bites, 
if  anyone  does!" 

He  did,  and  those  hands  of  his  were  strong,  prompt  and 
unfaltering.  Since  the  grip  of  human  sympathy  had  fast- 
ened on  the  Dop  Doctor  of  Gueldersdorp,  and  drawn  him 
up  out  of  the  depths  into  sunlight  and  free  air,  and  set  his 
feet  once  more  on  the  firm  ground,  how  many  of  his  fellow- 
sufferers  had  Saxham  not  hauled  reeking  and  squelching  out 
of  the  abysmal  sludge,  whose  secrets  shall  only  be  revealed 
upon  the  Last  Day. 

Yet  Saxham  realised  that  the  grand  majority  of  these 
twentieth-century  men  and  women  really  wanted  little  more 
of  the  physician  and  surgeon  than  the  thirteenth-century 
patient  desired  of  the  apothecary  or  the  leech.  A  patient 
hearing  given  to  their  category  of  evils — a  little  hocus-pocus, 
and  a  nostrum  or  so. 

We  scoff,  thought  Saxham,  at  the  ignorance  of  tnose  men 
of  the  Dark  Ages,  yet  in  this  enlightened  era  the  eye  of  newt 
and  toe  of  frog,  the  salted  earthwonns,  and  the  Pulvis 
Bezoardicus  Magistralis  or  Pulvis  Sanctus,  dissolved  in  the 
liquor  of  herbs  gathered  under  a  propitious  conjunction  of 
their  ruling  planets  with  the  Moon — have  but  given  place 
to  extract  of  the  dried  thyroid  gland  of  the  sheep,  the  ovaries 
of  the  guinea-pig,  the  spinal  cord  and  brain  of  rabbits  and 
mice  and  other  small  mammalia,  with — instead  of  broth  of 
vipers,  liquor  distilled  from  the  parotid  secretion  of  the 
tropical  toad;  identical  with  the  reptile  administered  in 
boluses  to  Pagan  patients  by  the  Greek  Hippocrates.  With 
other  remedies  hideously  akin  to  the  hell-brews  that 
whipped  the  sated  desires  of  TiberiiJ^  and  Nero.  .  .  . 
Such  as  the  pastelloids  frequently  prescribed  by  bland- 


The  Modern  Hippocrates  137 

mannered,  frock-coated,  twentieth-century  physicians — 
professing  Christians  who  pay  West-End  pew-rents,  and 
deplore  the  abnormal  drop  in  the  birth-rate — for  the  spur- 
ring of  the  sense  of  debilitated  Hedonists. 

Thus,  summed  Saxham,  we  have  rediscovered  Organo- 
therapy. We  have  harnessed  the  bacillus  to  Hj^geia's  silver 
chariot.  In  Surgery  the  Short  Circuit  is  the  latest  word. 
It  is  wonderful  to  know  how  well  one  can  get  on,  at  a  pinch, 
without  organs  hitherto  deemed  indispensable  to  existence. 
Radiology  reveals  to  us  the  inner  mysteries  of  the  human 
machine,  alive  and  palpitating.  The  splintered  bone,  the 
bullet  or  the  shell-splinter  embedded  in  the  muscle  or  the 
osseous  structure,  can  be  detected  and  photographed  by 
the  teleradiographic  apparatus.  The  electro-magnet  auto- 
matically carried  out  the  removal  of  such  fragments,  pro- 
vided only  that  they  are  of  steel.  Ah  yes!  We  are  very 
clever  in  this  twentieth  century,  reflected  the  Dop  Doctor. 
Modern  Science  has  even  weighed  the  Soul. 

Could  Dee  and  Lilly  have  bettered  that?  Debate — con- 
sider. .  .  .  This  quenchless  spark  of  Being,  kindled  in 
Saxham's  breast  and  in  yours  and  mine  by  the  Supreme  Will 
of  the  Divine  Creator — this  Ego  for  whose  eternal  salvation 
Christ  died  upon  the  bitter  Cross,  dips  the  scale  at  precisely 
one-sixteenth  of  an  ounce  avoirdupois.  The  expiring  man, 
weighed  a  moment  previously  to  dissolution,  and  again 
immediately  afterwards,  was  found  to  have  lost  so  much  and 
no  more. 

The  dying  world  is  in  the  scales  to-da}-,  thought  Saxham, 
bitterly  and  sorrowfully.  Religious  Faith  being  the  soul  of 
the  world,  one  wonders,  when  the  last  thin  hymn  shall  have 
died  upon  the  fierce  irrespirable  air;  when  the  last  human 
sigh  shall  have  exhaled  from  Earth,  how  much  in  pondera- 
bility shall  be  lacking  to  the  acorn-shaped  lump  of  whirling 
matter.  Will  the  result  proportionate  with  the  moribund's 
sixteenth  of  an  ounce  ? 

It  seemed  to  Saxham,  that  without  a  moral  and  social 


138  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

upheaval  upon  a  vaster  scale  than  historian  ever  recorded 
or  visionary  ever  dreamed;  a  cataclysmic  cleansing,  a  purg- 
ing as  by  fire;  the  regeneration  of  the  human  race,  the  recon- 
stitution  of  the  human  mind,  the  renaissance  of  the  Divine 
Ideal,  could  never  be  brought  about.  Unconsciously  he 
sought  for  the  decadent  world  some  such  ordeal  as  he  himself 
had  passed  through.  You  looked  at  him  and  saw  the  scars 
of  suffering.  The  soil  of  his  nature  had  been  rent  by  vol- 
canic convulsions  and  seared  by  the  upburst  of  fierce  abys- 
mal fires,  before  the  green  herb  clothed  the  sides  of  the 
frowning  steeps,  the  jagged  peaks  were  wreathed  with  gentle 
clouds;  the  pure  springs  gathered  and  ran;  the  valleys  be- 
came fruitful  and  the  plains  carpeted  themselves  with 
flowers. 

A  miracle  had  been  wrought  for  Saxham  the  Man,  and  he 
saw  the  need  of  one  for  the  World,  and  said  in  his  heart  that, 
though  holy  men  might  pray,  it  would  not,  could  not,  ever 
be  vouchsafed.  And  all  the  while  the  miracle  was  ripening, 
the  Day  was  coming,  the  Great  Awakening  was  at  hand. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

MARGOT   LOOKS  IN 

It  drew  on  to  the  luncheon  hour.  The  last  patient  a  very 
young,  very  little,  very  pretty  married  woman,  was  sum- 
moned by  the  neat  maid  from  the  waiting-room,  in  a  remote 
comer  of  which  a  husband  of  military  type  and  ordinarily 
cheerful  countenace,  remained,  maintaining  with  obvious 
effort  a  fictitious  interest  in  the  pages  of  a  remote  issue  of 
Punch. 

The  dainty  little  lady  bore  a  name  well  known  to  Saxham. 
The  fact  that  a  title  was  attached  to  it  did  not  interest  him, 
nor  had  it  shortened  her  term  of  waiting  by  a  second  of  the 
clock.  But  her  youth  smote  him  with  a  sense  of  pity  as  she 
took  the  chair  upon  his  left  hand  facing  the  window,  and 
without  overmuch  embarrassment  made  clear  her  case. 

She  was  going  to  have  a  baby.  Franky,  her  husband, 
earnestly  desired  the  kiddie  for  family  reasons,  yet  its  advent 
was  unwelcome  to  him,  in  that  it  must  inevitably  involve 
physical  pain  and  mental  anxiety  for  the  little  lady,  Franky's 
wife. 

The  little  lady  had  been  frightfully  downed  by  the  pro- 
spect. She  rather  cottoned  to  kiddies,  she  explained,  than 
otherwise.  It  was  the  bother  of  having  them  that  didn't 
appeal.  It  put  everything  in  the  cart  as  regarded  the  Au- 
tumn Season.  Besides — there  were  family  reasons  on  her 
side,  why  the  prospect  should  not  be  too  rosy.  She  stated 
the  reasons,  and  Saxham's  listening  face  grew  grave.  He 
realised  the  danger  of  a  Preconceived  Idea. 

He  said  nothing.  Margot  went  on  talking.  Her  beauti- 
ful deer-eyes  were  alternately  wistful  and  coaxing.  They 
entreated  sympathy.     They  begged  for  gentleness.     They 

139 


140  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

grew  brilliant  with  enthusiasm  as"  she  explained  that  after 
a  lot  of  chinning,  she  and  Franky  had  hit  upon  a  perfectly 
ripping  plan. 

A  friend,  recently  encountered  in  Paris,  had  thrown  a  ray 
of  hope  upon  the  doubtful  prospect.  No  doubt  Dr.  Sax- 
ham  was  in  S5mipathy  with  the  pioneers  of  the  New  Crusade 
against  Unnecessary  Pain.  ...  Of  course,  Dr.  Saxham 
knew  all  about  the  wonderful  experiments  of  German 
gynaswhatdoyoucall'ems.  The  right  term  was  frightfully 
crack-jaw.     Perhaps  Dr.  Saxham  knew  what  was  meant? 

Saxham  reassured  the  little  lady. 

"  You  refer  of  course  to  the  experiments  of  Professors  von 
Wolfenbuchel  of  Vienna,  and  Krauss  of  the  Berlin  Frailen- 
klinik,  resulting  in  the  method  of  treatment  now  known 
throughout  the  Continent  as  '  Purple  Dreams. '  Wolfen- 
biichel  and  Krauss  have  published  a  pamphlet  on  the  subject. 
Perhaps  you  have  read  the  pamphlet?" 

"Yes — Fve  read  it.  A  wonderful  book  that  has  been 
translated  into  every  language.  A  German  officer,  friend  of 
a  friend  I  met  in  Paris,  told  her  about  it.  His  sister  had 
tried  the  treatment,  and  found  it  Ai .  Sol  bought  a  French 
translation  of  the  book  in  Paris,  and  an  English  one  at  a 
shop  in  the  Haymarket.  It's  bound  in  rose-coloured  vellum 
stamped  with  a  rising  sun  in  gold.  'Weep  No  More, 
Mothers!'  it's  called.  Isn't  that  a  charming  title?  And 
the  subject  is:  'Pangless  Childbirth,  Produced  through 
Purple  Dreams.'" 

In  a  sweet,  coaxing  voice  that  trembled  a  little,  she  began 
to  tell  the  Doctor  about  the  wonderful  results  obtained  by 
hypodermics  of  Krauss  and  Wolfenbiichel's  marvellous  com- 
bination of  drugs.  And  Saxham  hearkened  with  stem 
patience,  while  the  table-clock  ticked  and  the  luncheon  hour 
drew  near,  and  Franky  chewed  the  cud  of  suspense  in  the 
Doctor's  waiting-room. 

Thousands  of  peasant  women,  and  others  of  the  lower 
middle-class  in  Germany  had  become  mothers  under  the 


Margot  Looks  In  141 

Purple  Dreams  treatment.  Maternity  Hospitals  in  Paris, 
Brussels,  and  New  York  had  adopted  the  method  after  con- 
troversy and  hesitation.  It  had  triumphed  over  every 
doubt.  An  American  woman  whose  brother's  wife  had  had 
a  "Purple  Dreams"  baby  at  the  Berlin  Institute  had  told 
the  little  narrator  only  yesterday  how  quite  too  wonderful 
was  the  discovery  of  the  enlightened  Krauss  and  the  gifted 
Wolfenbiichel.  Everything  was  made  easy.  When  your 
ordeal  drew  near  you  simply  went  to  the  place,  and  signed 
your  name  in  a  book,  and  put  yourself  in  the  hands  of 
skilled  persons.  You  felt  no  pain — not  a  twinge.  Only  the 
prick  and  throb  of  the  hypodermic  needle-syringe,  and  most 
people  were  used  to  the  pique  nowadays — administering 
the  first  subcutaneous  injections  of  the  wonderful  new  drug. 

.  .  Under  its  mild  sedative  influence  you  dozed  off  to 
sleep  presently.  And  when  you  woke  up — there  was  the 
baby — beautifully  dressed,  and  lying  on  a  lace  pillow  in  the 
arms  of  a  smartly  dressed,  fresh-cheeked  nurse. 

This  had  been  the  experience  of  the  sister  of  the  German 
officer,  as  of  the  wife  of  the  brother  of  the  American  lady. 
The  same  thing  happening  to  thousands  everywhere.  The 
philanthropic  Wolfenbiichel  and  the  benevolent  Krauss  had 
made  of  the  stony  Via  Dolorosa  by  which  Womanhood 
attains  maternity — a  path  of  soft  green  turf  bordered  with 
fragrant  lilies  and  bestrewn  with  the  perfumed  petals  of  the 
rose. 

She  ended  Saxham  had  kept  his  keen  blue  eyes  steadily 
upon  her  during  the  eloquent  recital.  Not  a  hair  of  his 
black  brows  had  twitched,  not  a  muscle  of  his  pale  face  had 
moved — betraying  his  urgent  inclination  to  smile.  His 
fine  hand,  lying  upon  the  blotter  near  the  small  black  case- 
book, might  have  been  carved  out  of  ancient  Spanish  ivory, 
or  yellow -white  lava.     Now  he  said: 

"There  is  nothing  new  nor  marvellous  about  the  '  Dreams ' 
method.  It  is — persistent  narcosis  obtained  from  the  sub- 
cutaneous injections  of  morphine  with  the  hydrobromide  of 


142  That  Which  Hath  Wines 


t>- 


hyoscine,  another  alkaloid  obtained  from  henbane.  I  have 
visited  not  only  the  Institute  at  Berlin,  but  the  Rottburg 
Fraiienklinik — and  an  establishment  of  the  same  type  in 
Paris,  and  another  in  Brussels.  It  is  a  fact  that  when  a 
patient  awakens  from  the  ansesthesia  there  is  no  recollec- 
tion of  anything  that  has  taken  place  subsequently  to  the 
injection  of  the  drug.  " 

"  There  has  been  no  pain.     Absolutely — none  whatever! " 
She  spoke  with  a  little,  joyful  catch  in  her  breath. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Saxham.  "You  labour  under  a 
delusion  which  the  rose-coloured  pamphlet  was  not  written 
to  dispel.  There  must  have  been  pain — if  there  has  been 
childbirth.  Perhaps  there  has  been  overwhehning  pain. 
Pain  manifested  by  outcries  and  convulsions — violent 
struggles— subdued  by  the  attendants  and  nurses— for  the 
friends  and  relatives  of  the  patient  are  rigidly  excluded — the 
patient  enters  and  leaves  the  Home  alone.  Two  or  three 
days  may  have  vanished  in  that  vacuum  which  has  been 
created  in  her  memory.  Days  in  which  she  has  been  lying 
—it  may  be — strapped  to  the  bed  in  the  private  ward  of  the 
nursing  home— her  purple,  congested  face  and  staring  eyes 
concealed  by  a  mask  of  wetted  linen — her  agonies  only  wit- 
nessed by  paid  attendants  whose  interests  are  best  served 
by  denial  or  concealment — supposing  anything  to  have  gone 
wrong?" 

The  relentless  surgeon's  hand  had  torn  away  the  painted 
curtain.  Margot  contemplated  the  grim  truth  in  silence  for 
a  moment.     Then  she  found  words: 

"But  nothing  Qver  does  go  wrong.  The  pink  pamphlet 
says  so.  My  American  friend's  sister-in-law  says  so.  .  .  . 
Thousands  of  women  have  had  children  under  scopolo — 
what's  its  name?  And  none  of  them  felt  pain — not  the 
slightest.  And  in  every  case — in  every  case — there  was  the 
baby  when  they  woke  up!" 

The  sweet  bird-voice  quivered.  She  had  entered  the 
room  so  full  of  hope  and  enthusiasm,  and  this  man  with  the 


Margot  Looks  In  143 

piercing  eyes  and  the  brusque,  direct  manner  was  putting 
things  before  her  in  a  way  that  dashed  and  damped.  Hear 
him  now: 

"Yes,  there  is  generally  a  baby — when  it  is  necessary 
there  should  be  one.  Though  the  patients  who  are  treated 
in  the  free  wards  of  German  and  Austrian  Kliniks  may  not 
always  be  scrupulous  upon  this  point.  Still,  if  the  treat- 
ment can  be  carried  out  without  undue  peril  for  the  mother 
— and  I  do  not  allow  this  for  a  single  moment — have  you  not 
considered  the  risk  for  the  child?" 

Margot  had  pulled  off  one  long  glove.  Now  she  mur- 
mured, setting  the  tip  of  a  little  bare,  jewelled  finger  near 
the  corner  of  a  distracting  little  mouth : 

"You  consider  that  it's  handicapping  the  start  for — the 
kiddie?" 

The  avalanche  fell;  shocking  and  freezing  and  stunning 
her. 

"Ask  yourself.  Lady  Norwater,  and  do  not  forget  to  ask 
your  husband :  Will  a  healthy  or  a  degenerate  type  of  man 
or  woman  be  eventually  reared  from  an  infant  in  whom  the 
springs  of  Life  have  been  deliberately  poisoned  with  henbane 
and  morphia — before  its  entrance  into  the  world?" 

She  gasped: 

"Then  it's  all  U.P.  ?"  She  was  slangy  even  in  her  tragic 
misery.  She  sought  in  her  gold  vanity-bag  and  produced 
the  envelope  that  held  the  cheque,  but  Saxham  waved  it 
away. 

"Pray  put  that  back.  .  .  .  Neither  from  rich  nor  poor 
do  I  accept  unearned  money.  You  have  not  really  consulted 
me.  You  have  asked  my  opinion  upon  a  course  of  treat- 
ment. And  I  have  given  it,  for  what  it  is  worth.  You  will 
go  home,  and  tell  your  husband  that  I  have  talked  tosh,  and 
consult  another  physician." 

"No,  I  won't  I"  She  said  it  bravely.  "I  want  you  to 
prescribe!" 

"If  I  prescribe,"  Saxham  told  her,  "you  shall  certainly 


144  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

fee  me.  But  you  do  not  need  treatment. "  His  eyes  smiled 
though  his  mouth  did  not  relax  its  grimness,  as  he  added: 
"You  strike  me  as  being  in  excellent  health.  " 

She  owned  to  feeling  "top-hole,"  first-class,  and  simply 
awfully  beany!  Though,  and  her  dimple  faded  as  she  owned 
it,  the  thought  of  what  must  happen  in  November  took  "the 
gilt  off  the  gingerbread." 

"  Do  not  think  of  what  is  going  to  happen  in  November, " 
Saxham  advised  her.  "Or  teach  yourself  to  think  of  it  in 
the  right  way."  The  sense  of  her  childishness  and  inex- 
perience went  home  to  the  sensitive  quick  beneath  the  man's 
hard  exterior,  as  she  said  to  him  with  an  unconsciously 
appealing  accent: 

"But  how  am  I  to  find  out  what  is  the  right  way?" 

He  had  gained  upon  her  confidence.  The  admission 
proved  it.  With  infinite  tact  he  began  to  win  yet  another 
woman  to  drain  out  her  chalice  of  Motherhood,  untinctured 
with  the  druggist's  nepenthe, — to  gain  for  the  race  yet 
another  babe  unmarred  before  its  birth.  For  this  end  no 
labour  was  too  great  for  Saxham.  A  crank  you  may  call 
him,  but  that  cranks  of  this  type  are  the  leaven  of  the  world, 
you  know. 

It  is  typical  of  the  human  butterfly  Saxham  dealt  with, 
that  his  clothes  pleased  Margot.  She  liked  their  character- 
istic mingling  of  elegance  with  simplicity.  Some  fashion- 
able doctors  got  themselves  up  like  elderly  bloods,  others 
affected  garments  dating  from  the  year  One.  There  was 
neither  perfume  upon  Saxham's  handkerchief  nor  flue  upon 
his  coat-sleeve.  His  shirt  of  soft  white  cashmere,  his 
slightly  starched  linen  cuffs  and  narrow  double  collar  were 
fastened  with  plain  buttons  of  mother  o'  pearl,  the  black  silk 
necktie  was  blameless  of  pin  or  ring.  The  handsome  gold 
chronometer  he  carried  because  it  had  been  presented  to  him 
by  the  Staff  and  patients  of  St.  Teresa  and  St.  Stanislaus. 
The  chain  attached  to  it — rather  worn  and  shabby  now — 
was  of  woven  red-brown  hair. 


Margot  Looks  In  145 

The  hair  of  his  wife.  A  creamy-pale  Niphetos  rose  stood 
where  her  hands  had  placed  it  near  his  writing-pad,  in  a  tall, 
slender  beaker  of  green-and-gold  Venetian  glass.  His  eyes 
drank  at  the  beauty  of  the  lovely  scarce-unfolded  blossom. 
Perhaps  the  resemblance  of  the  fair  flower  to  the  beloved 
giver  softened  the  lines  of  the  stern  square  face  into  the  smile 
that  Margot  liked,  as  he  found  her  eyes  again,  saying: 

"Perhaps  I  could  better  answer  your  question  by  telling 
you  how  another  patient  bore  herself  in — circumstances  akin 
to  yours.  Will  it  tire  you?  I  promise  not  to  be  unduly 
prolix.  And  to  listen  commits  you  to  no  course  of  action. 
Now,  shall  I  go  on?" 

"I'd  love  you  to  go  on!" 

Always  in  extremes,  the  little  wayward  creature.  She 
flushed  and  sparkled  at  the  Doctor  as  he  took  from  its  place 
on  his  writing-table  a  triptych  photograph-frame  in  gold- 
mounted  mother-o'-pearl,  folded  the  leaves  so  as  to  reveal 
but  one  of  the  portraits,  and  held  under  Margot's  eyes  the 
delicately-tinted  photograph  of  a  girl  of  twenty.  The  por- 
trait had  been  taken  the  year  following  Saxham's  return 
from  South  Africa  with  his  young  wife. 

"How  beautiful!"  Margot  exclaimed. 

"Beautiful,  as  you  say,  but  does  she  look  happy?" 

Margot  wrinkled  her  dainty  eyebrows,  puzzling  out  the 
question.  Did  she  look  happy,  the  girl  of  the  portrait, 
whose  face  and  figure  might  have  served  one  of  the  old  Greek 
masters  as  model  for  an  Artemis  to  be  carved  upon  a  gem? 
Well,  perhaps  not  quite  happy,  now  one  came  to  look 
again. 

The  black-lashed  eyes  of  golden  hazel  were  full  of  wistful 
sadness,  there  was  a  faintly  indicated  fold  between  the  fine 
arched  eyebrows,  much  darker  than  the  rippling  red-brown 
hair,  whose  luxuriance  seemed  to  weigh  down  the  little 
Greek  head.  The  closely-folded,  deeply-cut  lips  spoke 
dumbly  of  sorrow,  the  nymph-like  bosom  seemed  rising  on  a 
breath  of  weariness.  Something  was  lacking  to  complete 
10 


146  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

her  beauty.  So  much  was  plain  even  to  Margot.  But  not 
until  the  Doctor  showed  by  the  side  of  the  first,  the  second 
portrait,  did  she  realise  what  that  Something  was. 

In  the  first  portrait  both  face  and  figure  were  shown  in 
profile.  In  the  second,  bearing  a  date  of  two  years  later, 
the  beautiful,  sensitive  face  of  the  young  woman  was  turned 
towards  you.  Still  rather  grave  than  smiling,  she  held  in 
her  arms  a  sturdy  baby  boy  of  some  twelve  months,  upon 
whose  downy  head  her  chin  lightly  rested.  The  clasp  of  her 
slender  arms  about  her  child,  the  poise  of  her  still  nymph- 
like figure,  expressed  fulness  of  life,  buoyant  energy,  and 
happiness  in  fullest  measure.  What  was  previously  lacking 
was  now  made  clear. 

"Lovely,  quite  lovely!"  trilled  the  sweet  little  voice. 
"And  what  an  exquie  kiddy!" 

"Then  you  do  not  dislike  children?"  Saxham  asked,  as 
his  visitor's  husband  had  done  not  long  ago. 

"  On  the  contrary, "  the  little  lady  assured  him,  "  I  rather 
cotton  to  them.  But" — she  shrugged  her  little  shoulders 
prettily  and  quoted  boldly  from  another  woman — "but  the 
fag  of  having  them  doesn't — appeal!" 

The  Doctor  replaced  the  threefold  frame  and  ttirned  his 
regard  back  upon  his  visitor. 

"These  photographs  speak  for  themselves  .  .  ,"  he  said 
quietly.  "She — the  mother  of  the  boy  you  see,  was,  when 
she  first  knew  that  she  was  to  be  a  mother,  fragile  and  deli- 
cate in  body,  and  in  mind  highly-strung  and  sensitive.  As  a 
child  she  had  known  neglect  and  unkind  usage.  Twice  she 
had  sustained  an  overwhelming  shock,  physical  and  mental; 
she  had  rallied,  passed  through  a  crisis  and  regained  lost 
ground.  But  the  possibility  of  a  relapse  was  not  to  be 
blinked  at.     It  was  a  lion  in  the  path!" 

The  slight  form  of  the  listener  was  convulsed  by  a 
shudder.  The  pretty  face  lost  its  wild-rose  tint.  The  lion 
in  the  path  .  .  .  Margot  saw  him  crouching,  his  tawny  eyes 
aflame,  his  great  jaws  slavering,  his  tail  lashing  the  dust. 


Margot  Looks  In  147 

his  great  muscles  tightening  for  the  fearful  spring.     And 
Saxham  went  on: 

"She  maintained  from  the  first  a  sweet,  sane  mental 
standpoint.  She  tamed  her  lion  by  sheer  force  of  will.  Her 
courage  was  her  own:  she  did  not  owe  it  to  the  physician 
and  surgeon.  But  he  advised  as  he  knew  best,  and  she  fol- 
lowed his  advice  implicitly,  as  to  wholesome  diet  and  regular 
exercise,  thus  keeping  her  body  in  health.  She  surrounded 
herself  with  objects  that  were  beautiful  in  form  and  colour. 
She  made  a  point  of  hearing  great  music  and  of  re-reading 
the  works  of  great  poets,  essayists,  and  novelists.  She 
wished  her  child  to  owe  much  to  pre-natal  influences.  For 
that  these " 

The  speaker  faltered  for  a  moment,  before  he  resumed 
the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

" — That  these  form  character  for  good  or  evil  no  physio- 
logist can  deny.  Therefore  while  she  did  not  flee  from, 
she  avoided  the  sight  of  deformity  or  ugliness,  as  she  shunned 
active  infection,  or  tainted  air.  It  was  desirable  that  her 
child  should  be  healthy,  strong,  and  beautiful.  But  the  love 
of  loveliness,  though  one  of  the  dominants  of  her  character, 
scales  lowest  of  the  triad.  Human  love,  the  love  of  mother, 
husband,  and  friend  rank  above  it,  and  first  of  all  stands  the 
love  of  God." 

"How  awfully  good  she  must  be!" 

"She  took  the  child,  first  and  last,  as  a  gift  from  God  to 
her.  If  she  lived  or  died,  and  she  longed  inexpressibly  to 
live — Death,  like  Life,  would  be  the  fulfilment  of  the  Divine 
Will.  Fortified  by  the  Sacraments  of  her  Church  she  lay 
down  upon  her  bed  of  pain  as  though  it  were  an  altar.     She 

suffered  intensely " 

His  voice  broke. 

"She  suffered  inexpressibly.  Not  until  the  actual 
crisis  did  I  have  recourse  to  chloroform.  When  I  was 
about  to  use  it  she  said  to  me:  'Not  'yet!  .  .  .  I  will 
wear  it  a  little  longer.    .    .  this  mother's  crown  of  thorns.' 


148  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

To-day  the  crown  is  one  of  roses.  Does  not  this  appeal 
to  you?" 

The  Doctor's  supple  hand  displayed  the  third  portrait  in 
the  triptych,  and  Margot  saw  the  same  assured  joy,  rounded 
with  a  richer  and  more  deep  content.  The  exquisite  face 
was  fuller,  the  outlines  of  the  form  displayed  the  ripeness 
of  early  maturity,  the  slender  palm  was  now  a  stately  tree. 
The  girl  of  twenty  was  merged  in  the  woman  of  thirty,  rich 
in  all  feminine  graces,  beautiful  exceedingly,  with  the 
beauty  that  is  not  only  of  line  and  proportion,  form  and 
colour,  but  shines  from  within,  irradiating  the  perishable 
living  clay  with  the  immortal  radiance  of  the  soul.  Her  boy 
stood  at  her  side,  a  manly  square-headed  young  British 
twelve-year-old,  wearing  a  simple,  distinctive  dress,  fa- 
miliar to  us  all. 

"  Y-yes.  But  I'm  afraid  you  have  forgotten:  I  told  you 
at  the  beginning,  or  I  meant  to.  .  .  .  My — my  own  mother 
died  when  I  was  born ! " 

"And  that  sad  fact  increases  your  natural  fear  and  repug- 
nance. Naturally.  It  will  strike  you  as  a  curious  point  of 
resemblance  between  your  case  and  that  of  the — patient 
whose  portrait  I  have  shown  you,  when  I  tell  you  that  her 
mother  did  not  survive  the  birth  of  a  later  child.  May  I 
tell  you  further  that  the  possibility  of  some  inherited  weak- 
ness does  not  render  you  more  promising — regarded  as  a 
subject  for  the  treatment  of  Wolfenbiichel  and  Krauss." 

Margot  was  beginning  to  hate  this  stern-faced  man  who 
set  forth  things  so  clearly.  He  had  bored  her  almost  to 
weeping.  Why  on  earth  had  she  come?  The  fact  that 
Franky's  sister  Trix's  boy  Ronald  had  been  helped  into  the 
world  by  Saxham  thirteen  years  ago  and  recently  operated 
on  for  the  removal  of  the  appendix,  was  no  reason  that 
Franky's  wife  should  regard  him  as  infallible.  She  glanced 
at  her  tiny  jewelled  wrist-watch.  Ten  whole  minutes  had 
gone.     She  rose. 

"You  have  been  so  kind,   and  I  have  been  so  much 


Margot  Looks  In  149 

interested.  But  I  must  go  now!"  she  said,  like  a  weary 
child  pleading  to  be  let  out  of  school.  "Franky — my 
husband — will  be  waiting.  I  have  promised  to  lunch  with 
him  at  the  Club." 

"If  he  is  here,  perhaps  Lord  Norwater  would  like  to 
speak  to  me,"  Saxham  suggested. 

Margot  lied  badly.     She  reddened  as  she  answered: 

"Oh,  what  a  pity  that  he  did  not  come!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MARGOT   IS    SQUARE 

She  was  in  what  she  would  have  termed  "a  blue  funk" 
for  fear  that  Saxham  would  accompany  her  to  the  threshold. 
But  he  merely  bowed  her  out  of  the  consulting-room  and 
smartly  shut  his  door.  Then  she  tripped  to  the  waiting- 
room  and  beckoned  forth  Franky  with  an  air  of  buoyant, 
fictitious  cheerfulness.  Her  eyes  were  radiant,  her  little 
face  was  dressed  in  artful  smiles.  .  .  . 

"Did  I  seem  long?  Were  you  getting  the  hump?"  she 
asked  of  Franky,  who  rose  and  hurried  to  meet  her,  drop- 
ping Punches  all  over  the  place.  His  smooth  hair  was 
almost  rumpled  and  his  brown  eyes  begged  like  a  retriever's. 
He  asked  in  the  kind  of  whisper  that  travels  miles: 

"Yes — no!  Did  you  pull  off  the  interview?  What  does 
the  Doctor " 

"  S-sh ! "  She  glanced  anxiously  towards  the  one  remain- 
ing patient.  "Tell  you  when  we  get  out.  Impossible 
here!" 

He  urged :     "  But  is  it  all  right  ? ' ' 

"As  right  as  rain!" 

"Good  egg!"  She  had  got  him  out  of  the  room  and  as 
far  as  the  hall  door.  "Stop!  .  .  .  Wait!  Oughtn't  I  to 
go  and  thank " 

"No — no!"  The  door  was  open,  the  neat  little  landau- 
limousine  that  had  brought  them  was  waiting  by  the  kerb- 
stone. Before  Franky  knew  it,  Margot  had  plucked  him 
down  the  steps,  pulled  him  into  the  car,  and  given  the 
chauffeur  the  signal.  They  were  in  Hanover  Square  before 
he  recovered  his  breath. 

"Oh  come,  I  say,  Kittums!     That  sort  of  Sandow  busi- 

150 


Margot  is  Square  151 

ness  can't  be  good  for  you.  Why  you're  in  such  a  thunder- 
ing hurry  to  get  me  away,  I'd  rather  like  to  know?" 

Her  heart  shook  her,  but  she  lied  again  bravely. 

"  Didn't  you  want  to  hear  what  the  Doctor  told  me  about 
the  'Purple  Dreams'  treatment?" 

"More  than  anything  in  the  world.  That  drug  with  the 
freak  name!  .  .  .  Can  it  do  any  harm — to  you  and " 

"Not  a  scrap!" 

She  planted  a  flying  kiss  between  his  ear  and  his  collar. 
He  greatly  appreciated  the  attention,  though  it  tickled  him 
horribly. 

"Dr.  Saxham  said  it  was  a  frightfully  clever,  practicable 
method.  Absolutely  harmless,  and  the  patient  doesn't 
suffer  — not  that  much ! ' '  She  measured  off  an  infinitesimal 
bit  of  finger-nail  and  showed  him,  and  went  on  as  he  caught 
the  little  hand  and  gratefully  mumbled  it:  "You  don't 
know  a  thing  that  happens.  You  simply  go  to  bye-bye. 
And — there's  always  the  baby  when  you  wake  up!" 

"A  first-class  baby?"  His  harping  maddened  her.  "A 
healthy  little  buffer  to  send  to  Eton  and  represent  us  in  the 
Regiment,  and  inherit  the  title  presently  when  his  poor  old 
Pater  pops?  Just  look  me  in  the  face  like  the  little  sport 
you  are,  Margot,  and  tell  me  that  you're  playing  square 
with  me.     For  this — for  this  is  the  game  of  Life!" 

He  had  both  her  hands.  He  made  her  look  at  him.  She 
met  his  eager  stare  with  limpid  eyes.  And  all  the  while  that 
sentence  of  Saxham's  about  the  pre-natal  poisoning  of  the 
springs  of  existence,  drummed,  drummed  at  the  back  of 
her  brain.  "  What  a  little  beast  I  am!"  she  mentally  com- 
mented, hearing  her  own  voice  answering: 

"I've  told  you  No,  and  that  I  am  playing  square  with 
you!"  She  grasped  the  fact  that  Franky  had  suffered,  by 
the  grunt  of  relief  with  which  he  loosed  her  hands.  "And 
so  it's  settled  I  go  to  Berlin  about  the  middle  of — September, 
say?" 

"Wow-wow!     It's  us  for  the  gay  life!    Just  when  the 


152  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

beastly  hole's  as  dusty  as  the  Sahara  and  as  hot  as 
hell!" 

"You  won't  be  in  the  beastly  hole,  and  perhaps  I  needn't 
go  before  the  beginning  of  October.  You  can  go  down  to 
Brakehills  and  slay  away  at  the  pheasants,  and  run  over 
when  I  cable,  to  bring  me  back " 

"With  my  boy!     Our  boy,  Kittums!" 

His  simple,  kind  face  was  quivering.  He  put  out  a 
strong  brown  hand  and  laid  it  on  hers,  and  she  gave  the 
hand  a  little  affectionate  nip : 

"  Hullo ! "  Perhaps  he  talked  on  to  cover  up  the  momen- 
tary lapse  into  sentiment.  "Pipe  old  St.  George's,  where 
we  did  the  deed!  Hardly  seems  close  on  six  months  since 
we  got  spliced,  does  it?  And  there's  the  Bijou  Cottage. 
..."  Franky  thus  irreverently  designated  the  large, 
drab,  stucco-faced,  eminently  respectable  if  mousey  man- 
sion on  the  Square's  east  side,  where  Margot's  bachelor 
Uncle  Derek  lived  with  his  collection  of  moths  and  beetles. 
"  Shall  we  stop  and  give  the  old  gentleman  a  cheero?  Is  he 
at  all  likely  to  be  in?" 

His  hand  was  on  the  silk-netted  rubber  bulb  of  the 
chauffeur's  whistle,  when  Margot  caught  it  back. 

"No,  don't  stop !  Of  course  he's  in.  He  never  goes  out, 
unless  it  is  to  a  meeting  of  the  Entomological  Society,  or  the 
Museum  of  Natural  History,  or  some  other  place  equally 
stuffy  and  scientific.  Besides,  Uncle  Derek  is  a  vegetarian 
— and  there  wouldn't  be  anything  but  tomato  soup,  and 
pea-flour  cutlets,  and  Lepidoptera  for  lunch!" 

"Poor  little  woman,  was  she  peckish,  then?  All  lity, 
we'll  chuff  along  and  fill  up  tanks  at  the  Club.  Bally  odd 
bill  of  fare,  pea-flour  cutlets  and  Lepidop — what's-their- 
names?  But  we'll  get  things  nearly  as  rummy  served  up  to 
us  in  Berlin.  Pork  chops  with  sweet  gooseberry  sauce,  and 
pink  sausages  with  lilac  cabbage  and  dumplings.  Why  do 
you  look  so  scared?" 

She  forced  a  laugh. 


Margot  is  Square  153 

"Not  scared,  but  you  said 'we'  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  suppose  I  could  go  shooting  when  you  were — 
facing  what  you've  got  to  face?"  he  asked  her,  and  added, 
in  a  tone  and  with  a  look  that  she  had  once  before  encoun- 
tered from  him:  "When  you  go  to  Berlin  in  October, 
Kitttmis,  I  go  with  you;  take  that  as  straight  from  Head- 
quarters, old  child !  Unless — something  happens  to  prevent 
our  going  there  at  all ! " 

He  added,  answering  the  mute  question  in  her  eyes : 

"Something  that's  been  on  the  cards  since  the  Anglo- 
French  Agreement  of  1904.  It  cropped  up  again  in  1905, 
when  the  German  Kaiser's  feelings  were  so  upset  by  John 
Bull's  carryings-on  with  the  pretty  lady  in  the  tricolour 
petticoat  and  Cap  of  Liberty,  that  he  called  on  the  Sultan 
of  Morocco  at  Tangier  to  ask  his  Sublimity  to  interfere. 
And  again  in  1908  we  were  up  against  it  .  .  .  when  Austria 
annexed  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina,  and  Russia  took  the 
needle,  and  William  ordered  out  his  best  suit  of  shining 
armour  in  readiness  for  a  scrap.  ...  If  there's  anything 
in  the  Triple  Entente,  the  fat  was  nearly  in  the  fire  then. 
.  .  .  And  again  in  191 1,  over  the  French  occupation  of 
Morocco,  when  the  German  gunboat  Panther  and  the 
German  cruiser  Berlin  were  sent  to  the  closed  Fort  of 
Agadir  near  the  mouth  of  the  smelly  River  Sus.  That 
piffed  out  after  a  good  deal  of  what  they  call  '  acute  tension 
between  the  Powers.'  To  the  Services  acute  tension 
means  the  stoppin'  of  leave.  And  I'd  fixed  things  up  for 
spendin'  the  July  fortnight  before  Henley  with  some  jolly 
people  at  Baden-Baden,  and  if  the  trip  had  come  off,  the 
chances  are  I'd  have  come  back  engaged  to  another  girl!" 

"Are  you  sorry?" 

"Do  I  look  sorry?"  was  the  quick  riposte.  He  went  on: 
"  France  and  Germany  went  in  for  '  precautionary  measures ' 
that  time.  Precautionary  measures  mean  concentration  of 
troops  on  both  frontiers,  and  General  Manoeuvres  on  the 
biggest  scale.     Dress-rehearsal  for  a  general  mobilisation, 


154  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

you  tumble?  While  our  Home  Fleet  quietly  concentrated 
on  our  north-east  coast.  And  just  when  the  lid  seemed  on 
the  point  of  being  taken  off,  Billiam  the  Bimiptious  climbed 
down,  and  withdrew  from  Agadir.  The  squabble  was 
patched  up.  France  got  a  free  hand  in  Morocco  in  return 
for  the  open  door  and  100,000  square  miles  of  the  Congo 
Basin.  French  and  German  troops  left  off  mugging  at  one 
another  across  the  frontiers.  Whitehall  Wireless,  Nordeich 
Station,  and  the  Eiffel  Tower  emitted  radios  reversin'  the 
weather-signals  from  10  to  o,  which  means  a  dead  calm. 
And  the  British  Fleet  gave  up  all  hope  and  went  home  to 
bed. 

"  But — and  don't  you  swipe  in,  Kittums,  for  I'm  gettin'  to 
the  thrillin'  part — the  bigwigs  who  manage  Foreign  Affairs 
weren't  taken  in  so  easily.  They  knew  the  bad  blood  had 
got  to  break  out  somewhere,  and  it  did.  Italy  and  Turkey 
went  to  war  in  November,  191 1,  and  the  Balkan  Rumpus 
broke  out  ten  months  later.  Turkey  didn't  win,  though  her 
Army  has  had  German  instructors  ever  since  von  Moltke 
licked  it  into  shape  in  1835,  and  Germany'd  naturally 
expected  her  to  finish  as  top-dog.  So  the  concessions  Ger- 
many wanted  from  Turkey  were  lost.  I  rather  think  the 
Prussian  Eagle  had  its  eye  on  Adrianople  on  the  Black  Sea 
coast,  and  the  GalHpoli  Peninsula,  for  the  furtherin'  of  her 
views  on  the  Near  East — and  Austria  had  a  fancy  for  the 
Sanjak  of  Novibazar — and  wanted  Salonika  as  a  base  for 
operations  on  the  Mediterranean.  Anyhow,  both  of  'em 
were  wiped  on  the  jaw.  And  William  the  All  Too  Knowing, 
as  Courtley  calls  him— Courtley's  going  in  strong  for 
Nietzsche  just  now — says  his  works  are  a  slogging  attack  on 
Teutonism! — William  has  got  to  the  end  of  his  patience. 
The  shining  armour's  been  hanging  up  all  these  years, 
getting  too  tight  for  an  Emperor  inclined  to  run  to  tummy. 
The  shining  sword  was  getting  rusty  in  its  regulation  sheath. 
And  then  in  the  nick  of  time — happens  the  Affair  of  Sara- 
jevo.    The  news  came  through  that  Sunday  in  Paris.     I 


Margot  is  Square  155 

remember  how  Spitz's  Restaurant  boiled  over,  and  the 
people  were  shouting  'Sarajevo'  on  the  boulevards.  By 
George !  I  forgot  you  were  in  bed  and  asleep  while  we  were 
dining." 

Margot,  between  waking  and  sleeping,  had  got  some 
inkling  of  the  tragedy  of  that  night.  She  asked,  as  Franky 
took  off  his  hat  and  proceeded  to  mop  his  non-intellectual 
forehead: 

' '  And  is  Sarajevo  likely  to  stop  me  from  going  to  Berlin  ? ' ' 

Franky  left  off  mopping  and  said,  looking  at  her  squarely: 

"If  Austria's  Note  to  Serbia  is — what  the  Kaiser  would 
like  it  to  be — you  may  take  it  we're  on  the  giddy  verge  of 
a  General  All-Round  Scrap." 

' '  You  mean — a  war  ? ' ' 

"I  mean  the  War  that'll  dwarf  all  others  by  comparison. 
The  War  of  Nations,  that  the  prophet  wrote  of  in  Revela- 
tions. Armageddon.  .  .  .  The  Last  Battle.  The  Big 
Bust  Up  that  comes  before  the  end." 

"  Darling  old  boy,  what  rot!" 

"Rot  if  you  like.  You  wait  and  see  what  happens. 
D'you  pipe  me  tipping  you  the  gag  Asquithian?"  He 
grinned  at  the  idea. 

"Franky,  you've  set  me  asking  myself  something." 

"Why  you've  married  an  idiot?  ...  Is  that  it?"  He 
turned  upon  her  a  rueful  face  from  which  the  grin  had  been 
wiped  away. 

Margot  said,  as  the  car  turned  smoothly  into  Short 
Street  and  stopped  before  the  Club  portico: 

"  No,  but — How  is  it  you  know — all  the  things  you  know, 
when  I've  always  known  you  knew  nothing  about  any- 
thing?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Give  it  up!  .  .  .  No,  I  don't!  The  answer  is — I'm  one 
of  those  fellows — and  the  Services  are  simply  stiff  with  'em, 
who  are  absolute  asses  till  it's  necessary  for  'em  to  be  some- 
thing else." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  MODERN  CLUB 

Perhaps  in  those  prehistoric  days  before  the  War,  you 
knew  the  big,  cool,  ground-floor  dining-room  of  the  "Ladies' 
Social"  Club.  They  lunched  excellently  at  Margot's  pet 
table  in  the  comer  near  the  conservatory,  between  whose 
rows  of  well-tended  pot-plants  you  pass  to  the  smoke-room, 
celebrated  for  its  Persian  divan,  and  green-and-rose- 
coloured  glass  dome. 

Soon  the  Club  would  be  abandoned  to  sweeps,  painters, 
charwomen,  and  window-cleaners.  Just  novv"  everything 
was  in  full  swing.  As  the  Httle  tables  became  vacant,  the 
drawing-rooms  and  lounges  filled  up.  The  smoke-room 
was  a  crush  of  well  got-up  men  and  extravagantly-capar- 
isoned women,  chattering  nineteen  to  the  dozen  under  a 
thick  blue  canopy  of  Turkish,  Egyptian,  and  Virginian. 
The  tang  of  Kiimmel  and  Benedictine  and  Creme  de  Menthe 
came  to  you  with  the  fragrance  of  the  Club's  especial  coffee 
and  the  reek  of  inmmierable  illusion  perfumes. 

People  were  having  a  cigarette  and  a  gossip  before  going 
on  to  Lord's  to  see  the  tennis-singles  between  Oxford  and 
Cambridge;  or  the  Inter-Regimental  Polo  Finals  at  Hurling- 
ham.  Others  had  just  motored  back  from  witnessing  the 
rowing-matches  at  Henley,  between  Eton  and  Darley,  and 
the  Eton  second  Eight  and  Montbeau  College,  and  were 
recuperating  before  dropping  in  for  a  whiff  of  the  new 
comedy  at  the  Ambassador's,  or  the  latest  revue  at  the 
Fleur  de  Lis.  To  be  followed  by  Tango  Tea  at  the  Rocroy, 
or  Unlimited  Bridge  at  the  house  of  an  accommodating 
friend. 

Perhaps  you  can  recall  them — those  men  and  women  of 

156 


A  Modern  Club  157 

the  best  and  bluest  blood  in  Britain,  strenuously  spending 
their  days  in  doing  nothing  as  expensively  as  ever  it  could 
be  done.  Light,  frivolous,  shallow,  dry-hearted;  restlessly 
seeking  new  things  on  which  to  waste  their  barren  energies, 
they  seemed,  and  bore  out  their  seeming  in  all  thorough- 
ness; the  degenerate  sons  and  daughters  of  a  once  great  and 
splendid  race. 

Save  Vanity  and  the  Pride  of  Life  there  seemed  but  little 
in  Eve  or  Adam.  Not  overmuch  grey  brain-matter  ap- 
peared to  be  contained  within  their  small  neat  skulls. 
Though  in  comparison  with  the  modem  Eve,  slangy,  loud, 
extravagantly  attired  in  every  tint  of  the  Teutonic  dye- 
chemist's  chromatic  register,  topped  with  feathers  that 
missed  the  ceiling  by  a  bare  half-foot,  Adam  in  his  neutral 
greys,  and  buffs  and  browns,  and  umbers,  struck  you  as  a 
being  of  mild  demeanour  and  uncostly  apparel,  until  look- 
ing closer,  you  found  him  out. 

His  nice  hair  was  gummed  about  his  head  as  sleekly  as  a 
golliwog's.  He  sported  stays,  for  the  preservation  of  his 
silhouette.  His  gossamer  cambric  exhaled  perfumes  like  a 
Georgian  dandy's.  Fashionable  complexion-creams  lent 
his  tanned  and  well-shaved  cheek  a  tempting  peachiness. 
His  socks  were  all  too  lovely  for  description  by  this  feeble 
pen  of  mine.  The  uppers  of  his  boots  were  of  every  im- 
aginable material  and  substance,  ranging  from  silk  brocade, 
green  lizard,  and  ivory-white  shark  skin,  to  sandy-pink 
armadillo-belly,  or  the  tender  grey  of  the  African  gazelle. 

The  results  of  the  Olympic  Games  of  191 2  must  have 
made  dour  reading  for  the  fathers  of  these  youthful  Britons, 
remembering  their  own  triumphs  in  the  early  eighties.  A 
bitter  pill  for  those  stark  old  men,  their  grandfathers, 
makers  of  'Varsity  records  in  '61  and  '67,  whose  faith  in  the 
superiority  of  British  lungs  and  muscles  had  been  be- 
queathed them  by  their  own  sires.  Yet  their  juniors  took 
it  calmly.  They  carried  the  stigma  of  inferiority  with 
cheerful  indifference.     Even  while  holding  it  the  thing  best 


158  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

worth  living  for — they  placidly  submitted  to  be  outclassed 
in  sport. 

And  both  the  man  and  the  woman  of  this  era  were  pos- 
sessed by  strange  crazes  and  pleased  with  vivid  contrasts. 
The  musical  jig-saw  puzzles  of  Lertes,  Hein,  and  de  Blonc 
vied  in  their  favour  with  the  weird  Oriental  Operas  of  the 
Russian  Rimsky-Korsakov  and  the  delicate  rhapsodies  of 
Delius,  and  the  sylvan  nymphs  and  fauns  of  Russian  Ballet 
shared  their  plaudits  with  Senora  Panchita  and  Herr  Maxi 
Zuchs,  the  celebrated  exponents  of  the  Tango. 

Ah,  yes,  it  was  an  extraordinary  era.  Slips  from  that 
old,  old  Tree  that  bore  the  Forbidden  Fruit  had  been 
successfully  grafted  upon  so  many  old-world  stocks  in 
British  orchards,  that  you  caught  a  tang  of  its  exotic  flavour 
in  almost  everything.  Play  ran  high.  Luxury  ran  riot. 
Period  Balls  and  Upas  Club  Cabaret  Suppers  were  IT — 
absolutely  IT.  Morality  was  at  lowest  ebb — Religion  a 
forgotten  formulary.  And  as  the  Christian  virtues  cheap- 
ened, so  the  prices  of  dress,  jewellery,  motor-cars,  and  other 
indispensables  of  modern  existence  climbed  to  still  more 
amazing  altitudes.  The  marvel  was,  because  nobody 
seemed  to  have  any  money — where  the  money  came  from 
to  pay  for  these  things?  What  we  are  yet  to  pay  for  the 
wholesale  levelling  of  moral  barriers,  and  the  abolition  of 
old-world  modesty  and  good  taste,  that  distinguished  the 
years  of  ill-fame  1913  and  1914,  only  Heaven  knows. 

Even  more  comprehensively  pervasive  than  the  illusion 
perfumes  extracted  from  coal-tar  by  German  chemists,  and 
supplied  us  by  German  manufacturers;  even  more  striking 
than  the  dazzling,  vivid  aniline  dyes,  procured  from  the 
same  source,  even  more  potent  than  the  vast  array  of  by- 
product drugs  which  represent  as  it  were  the  scum  of  the 
insulated  vats  wherein  the  Teuton  chemist  macerates  and 
mingles  his  high  explosives — was  the  strange,  mysteriously 
pervasive  flavour,  the  seductively-suggestive  tang  of  evil 
in  the  social  atmosphere.     You  caught  the  look  of  secret, 


A  Modern  Club  i59 

intimate,  half -cynical  knowledge  in  the  faces  not  only  o^ 
the  merest  youths,  but  of  the  youngest,  freshest,  prettiest 
girls.  Subjects  held  unmentionable  a  few  years  ago  were 
openly  discussed  in  English  drawing-rooms.  Curious  lore 
in  strange  things  old  and  new  was  much  sought  after  at  this 
period,  when  Cubism  and  Futurism  governed  design,  not 
only  in  dress  and  stage  scenery,  but  in  Painting,  Sculpture, 
and  Architecture;  and  dances  known  in  the  voodoo-houses 
of  East  Africa  and  the  West  Indies,  and  the  hells  of  Central 
America  and  the  Argentine  were  seen  in  the  ball-rooms 
as  in  the  brothels,  of  Paris  and  London,  Petrograd  and 
Brussels,  Vienna,  New  York,  and  Berlin. 

Novelty  was  so  much  the  rage,  that  if  the  Arch-Enemy  of 
Mankind  had  appeared  among  the  exclusive  patrons  of  a 
fashionable  night-club  in  any  one  of  these  cities,  a  hearty 
welcome  would  have  been  extended  to  him,  and  his  ripe 
experience  would  have  been  laid  under  contribution  with  a 
view  to  imparting  to  the  latest  Cabaret  entertainment  some 
exotic  novelty  from  Hell. 

Franky  with  obtrusive  care  selected  a  comfortable  corner 
of  the  Persian  divan  for  Margot,  and  while  she  signed  for 
coffee  and  Kiimmel,  established  himself  at  her  side. 

They  were  isolated,  it  seemed  to  Kittums.  Friends 
nodded  and  smiled  cordially,  but  did  not  attempt  to  join 
them.  Was  it  because  Franky's  too-possessive  manner 
had  told  secrets?  .  .  .  She  shivered  and  glanced  at  her 
lord.  He  said,  as  the  light-footed  button-boys  scoured 
about  with  coffee  and  liqueur-trays,  while  the  electric  fans 
purred,  the  blue  smoke-canopy  thickened  under  the  green 
and  rose  glass  dome,  and  the  clamour  of  many  feminine 
voices,  in  combination  with  the  gaudy  feathers  of  the 
clamourers,  suggested  the  South  American  macaw-house 
at  the  Zoo: 

"My  eye!  you're  pretty  thick  in  here.  Alight  be  a  fog 
in  mid-Channel."    He  mounted  a  square  monocle  recently 


i6o  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

purchased  in  Paris  and  the  pride  of  his  bosom,  threw  back 
his  head  and  stared  up  into  the  famous  green  and  rose  dome. 
"Swagger  affair.     How  much  did  it  tot  up  to ? " 

"Seventeen  hundred,  clear,  with  the  carpet  and  the 
divan." 

"Pretty  stiff!"  His  doleful  whistle  set  Margot's  teeth 
on  edge.     She  added: 

"And  rattling  cheap  at  the  price!  And — if  it  wasn't,  I 
was  spending  my  own  money.  ,  .  .  There  was  nobody — 
then — to  interfere ! " 

He  conceded : 

"Of  course  I  don't  suggest  that  you  were  done  in  the  eye. 
Probably  you  got  the  value  of  your  dibs.  But  you'll  have 
something  better  to  spend  cash  on  presently.  Me,  too! 
We  must  both  draw  in  our  horns  now,  Kittimis.  For 
the  sake  of — you  know  who!  .  .  .  Hullo!  Is  anything 
wrong  ? ' ' 

She  had  winced,  but  she  gritted  her  little  teeth,  and 
fought  back  the  rising  hysteria.  She  could  have  shrieked, 
or  thrown  the  little  coffee-pot  at  his  head.  He  went  on, 
recognising  friends  through  the  smoke-haze : 

"There's  Lady  Beau  with  that  German  aviator-chap 
we  met  in  Paris.  Big  red-headed  brute.  You  remember 
him?  And — who's  the  girl.?  But  for  her  hair,  I'd  say  it 
was  Miss  Saxham.  By  the  Great  Brass  Hat,  it  is!  With  a 
wig,  or  dyed.  ..." 

"Dyed.  It  was  done  in  Paris — done  most  beautifully." 
Margot's  eyes  had  lighted  up  with  interest.  "I  must  have 
forgotten  to  tell  you.  I've  known  it  three  or  four  days. 
Don't  you  like  it?" 

"Like  it?"  Franky  had  reached  for  his  little  glass  and 
gulped  the  contents  hurriedly.  "My  stars,  I  never  saw 
such  a  transformation.  Order  another  Kiimmel,  please,  to 
give  me  a  buck-up." 

"Take  mine.  I  simply  loathe  the  sticky  stuff."  She 
added,  as  Franky  obliged:  "/think  that  Pat  looks  ripping." 


A  Modern  Club  i6i 

"All  too  ripping.  That's  where  the  trouble  comes  in." 
He  went  on:  "When  her  hair  was  black,  you  knew  where 
it  was  you'd  seen  her.  Makin'  one  in  an  endless  procession 
of  women — all  with  long  eyes  and  big  busts  and  curving 
hips,  walkin' — like  pussy-cats  along  a  roof-ridge,  on  the 
walls  of  those  old  Egyptian  temples  we  did  together — that 
November  when  I  got  such  spoons  on  you — going  up  with 
the  Gillinghams  from  Cairo  to  Philae — a  flat-bottomed  Nile 
tug  towin'  the  whole  crowd  in  a  string  of  dahabeahs.  You 
remember  those  ochre-coloured  Nile  simrises?  When  a 
dust-storm  had  been  blowin'  over  the  Desert,  and  the  River 
was  all  wrinkly  white,  like  curdled  milk." 

"How  killingly  poetic'" 

"Am  I  poetic?  Good  egg!  Never  thought  I'd  live  to 
be  called  that." 

"Live  and  learn!"  Alargot's  laugh  was  a  hard  little 
silvery  tinkle.  She  too  was  remembering  the  sunrises  and 
sunsets  of  Egypt,  and  the  long  days  under  the  green  canvas 
awnings.  How  beautiful  she  had  thought  the  brown  eyes 
that  seemed  only  vacuous  now.  She,  Margot,  would  be  ugly 
very  soon  now,  she  told  herself.  Already  her  small  face 
showed  lines  and  hollows.  Soon  beauty-loving  men  and 
women  would  turn  their  e3'es  away.  .  .  .  Pier  cheval-glass 
would  tell  her  why,  and  shop-windows  when  she  passed 
them  would  reveal  her  shapelessness.  She  would  only 
possess  interest  for  three  people.  For  the  doctor,  as  a 
patient.  For  the  certificated  nurse,  as  a  Case.  For  her 
husband,  as  the  potential  mother  of  the  boy  he  longed  for. 
And — what  price  Margot? 

"Should  you  like  me  to  take  you  to  see  some  polo,  or 
wouldn't  a  chuff -chuff  in  the  country  be  best-*"  Franky's 
eyes  were  full  of  himgry  solicitude  as  they  rested  on  the 
small,  pinched  features.  "You  look  a  bit  fagged,  it  strikes 
me!" 

She  nipped  her  little  lower  lip,  stung  by  the  tone  of  sjin- 
pathetic  proprietorship.  "Oh!  very  well.  A  drive!"  she 
II 


i62  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

told  him,  and  they  passed  together  from  the  smoking-room. 
The  sheath-skirt  revealed,  as  she  moved,  what  she  would 
have  hidden.  Von  Herrnung  smiled,  following  the  little 
figure  with  bold ,  curious  glances.  Other  men  stared,  if  more 
discreetly.  Towering  feathers  nodded  to  each  other  as 
their  feminine  wearers  commented : 

"Poor  little  Margot,  how  quite  too  rough  on  her!" 

Said  Lady  Beauvayse,  assuming  the  rip-saw  Yankee 
accent  in  which  it  pleased  her  to  deliver  her  witticisms : 

"Say  now!  if  we  women  could  pick  babies  right  away  off 
the  strawberry- vines,  it  would  save  a  deal  of  trouble,  and  a 
considerable  pile  of  self-respect." 

Everybod}^  laughed.  A  slender  white  and  golden  woman 
with  a  string  of  sapphires  very  much  the  colour  of  her  own 
eyes,  picked  up  a  toy  Pekingese  that  squatted  near  her,  and 
said,  cuddling  the  goggling  morsel  under  her  chin: 

"  I  agree.  When  I  look  at  my  two  precious  duckies  I  say 
to  myself:  'You  little  dears,  for  each  of  your  sweet  sakes  I 
became  a  plain  w^oman  with  a  shapeless  silhouette  and  sau- 
cer-eyes. Now  that  I've  done  my  duty  to  your  pappy  and 
Posterity,  this  is  the  only  kind  of  baby  I'll  indulge  in." 
She  kissed  the  Pekingese  on  the  end  of  its  black  snub-nose. 
"And  when  I  want  a  new  one — I'll  buy  it  at  the  shop  I" 

"  Noch  hesser.  Why  not  hire  one?  ..."  suggested  von 
Herrnung. 

Mrs.  Charterhouse  laughed  and  gave  him  the  Pekingese 
to  hold.  But  it  snapped  at  him  furiously  and  she  took  the 
little  beast  back  again. 

"  Dogs  do  not  like  me, "  said  the  big  German.  "You  will 
read  perhaps  in  novels  that  that  is  a  bad  sign,  yes?" 

"I  never  read  novels, "  returned  Mrs.  Charterhouse,  with 
her  famous  manner,  "nor  any  books,  only  bits  of  the  papers 
for  the  Sporting  and  Society  news.  And  Reports  of  Divorce 
Proceedings,  and  the  Notices  in  Bankruptcy.  One  likes  to 
know  what  one's  friends  are  doing,  and  where  they  are 
to  be  found.     Don't  you,  Count?     Not  that  there  is  any 


A  Modern  Club  163 

great  difficulty  in  ascertaining  your  whereabouts,  just  now, 
I  fancy.  .  .  .  Why,  what  has  become  of  Patrine?" 

"  Miss  Saxham  went  in  there  just  now  to  write  a  letter, " 
said  the  smiling  von  Herrnung,  pointing  to  the  leather- 
covered  swing-doors  communicating  with  the  writing-room. 
"She  comes  now,  I  think!  Yes,  it  is  she!"  He  rose  with 
his  air  of  exaggerated  courtesy  as  the  tall  figure  of  Patrine 
Saxham  returned  through  the  swing-doors  and  re-crossed  the 
room.  She  carried  her  head  high,  and  had  a  letter  in  her 
hand.  The  alteration  in  the  colour  of  her  hair  made  her 
whiteness  almost  startling.  There  were  bluish  shadows 
about  her  long  eyes,  and  her  rounded  cheeks  had  lost  a  little 
of  their  fulness,  but  her  beauty  had  never  been  more 
apparent  than  now. 

"She  has  dyed,  therefore  she  is  dead  to  me!"  groaned 
Courtley,  who  was,  as  usual,  in  attendance  on  Lady  Beau- 
vayse.  He  added,  plaintively:  "It's  like — white-washing 
the  Sphinx,  or  enamelling  a  first-class  battle-cruiser  in  some 
fashionable  colour.  Why  did  you  let  her  do  it,  my  lady 
fair?" 

Lady  Beauvayse  retorted: 

"Am  I  Miss  Saxham's  mother  that  I  should  meddle  in  her 
love-affairs?" 

"If  I  was  acquainted  with  her  mother,"  said  Courtley, 
below  his  breath,  "and  thought  the  good  lady  would  take 
my  tip  seriously,  I'd  step  in  and  nip  this  affair  in  the  bud. 
It's  no  go,  even  if  Miss  Saxham  thinks  it  is.  It's  a  dud. 
That  German  flying-chap  is  booked  to  marry  a  cousin;  a 
Baroness  Something  von  Wolfensbragen-Hirschenbuttel. 
I've  seen  it  in  the  Berlin  Lokal  Anzeiger,  and  that's  in- 
spired, a  sort  of  Imperial  Court  Almanac.  And  even  if  it 
wasn't  true,  there  are  reasons — "  His  kind  grey  eyes 
were  worried,  he  tugged  at  his  pointed  black  beard  in  a 
vexed  way.  "  Take  me  seriously,  Miladi,  tell  her  what  I've 
told  you,  before  it's  too  late!" 

"And  bring  on  myself  the  fate  of  the  interfcrer.  .  .  . 


164  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Couldn't  you — since  you're  so  anxious?"  Lady  Beau vayse 
began. 

"Not  possible,"  said  Courtley.  "Too  crushed  with  re- 
sponsibilities. Got  to  brush  up  my  seamanship,  while  my 
junior  executive  swots  away  in  Docks  at  Chatham,  fillin'  in 
the  watch-bill  and  making  out  commissioning-cards." 

"You've  got  a  ship,  do  you  mean?" 

Courtley  nodded. 

"  They  call  her  one  at  the  Admiralty  just  by  way  of  being 
funny.  When  they've  scraped  off  the  dirt  enough  to  get  at 
her,  she  may  turn  out  to  be  a  first-class  protected  cruiser. 
Twenty  months  out  of  commission — and  mobilised  for  the 
Spithead  Naval  Review." 

"Ought  one  to  be  glad?  .  .  .  Does  it  mean  that  we're 
to  congratulate  you  on  promotion?"  asked  puzzled  Lady 
Beau  vayse. 

"Well,"  Courtley  admitted  cautiously,  "when  I've  got 
my  full-dress  frock-coat  and  sword  out  of  pawn,  and  hoisted 
my  pennant  and  called  on  the  post  Commander-in-Chief — I 
shall  be  something  between  a  Rear-Admiral  and  a  Post 
Captain — or  they'll  have  told  me  wrong." 

"And  the  Review — what  do  you  call  it?"  persisted  Lady 
Beau  vayse.  "Can  one  go  and  see  it — whenever  it  comes 
off?" 

"It'll  be  big  enough  to  see — with  a  stifQsh  pair  of  bin- 
kies, "  admitted  Courtley  in  his  gentlest  manner;  "and  the 
newspapers  seem  to  have  arranged  it  for  somewhere  in  the 
middle  of  the  month.  As  to  what  you're  to  call  it — if  you 
called  it  an  Object  Lesson  on  the  biggest  scale  for  the  use 
of  German  Kultur  Classes,  perhaps  you  wouldn't  be  very 
wide  of  the  bull." 

He  got  up  before  Lady  Beauvayse  could  rejoin,  and  had 
met  Patrine,  and  engineered  her  into  his  vacated  seat  next 
her  friend  upon  the  divan  almost  before  she  knew.  She 
lowered  her  tall  person  upon  the  cushions,  studiously 
avoiding    von    Herrnung's    glances.     She    wore    a    white 


A  Modern  Club  165 

embroidered  gown  of  cobwebby  material  and  extreme 
scantiness,  a  stole  of  black  cock's  feathers  was  looped  about 
her  shoulders,  and  on  her  dead  beech-leaf -coloured  hair  sat 
a  curious  little  hat  of  glittering  silver  spangles,  from  which 
sprang  a  single  black  cock's  plume. 

"What  have  you  all  been  talking  about?"  she  asked, 
looking  about  her. 

Lady  Wastwood,  who  sat  near,  answered,  balancing  her 
long,  slim,  fragile  personality  on  the  fender-stool  before  the 
hearth  that  was  filled  with  tall  ferns  and  flowering  plants 
in  pots : 

"We  were  saying — what  a  wretched  pity  the  process  of 
racial  reproduction  is  so  abominably  unbecoming.  It 
really  points  to  a  loose  style  of  reasoning  on  the  part 
of  Nature — or  whoever  it  is  who  arranges  these 
things!" 

Who  does  not  know  Lady  Wastwood.  She  affected,  at 
this  period,  a  skull-cap  of  gold-green  hair  and  a  triangular 
chalk-white  face,  with  a  V-shaped  mouth,  painted  scarlet 
as  a  Pierrot's.  Her  eyebrows  were  black  and  resembled 
musical  slurs.  Through  her  few  diaphanous  garments  you 
could  have  counted  every  bone  of  her  frail  person,  so  light 
that  it  was  a  favourite  vacation  joke  with  her  eldest  boy 
— who  was  now  at  Sandhurst  qualifying  for  a  Cavalry  Com- 
mission— to  sprint  with  his  widowed  mother  on  his  shoulder 
up  and  down  corridors  and  stairs. 

Listen  to  Trixie: 

"I  suppose — Nature.  She's  so  unreasonable — that  must 
be  why  she's  a  she,  in  literature.  She  implanted  in  us  poor 
women  the  raging  desire  to  be  pretty  under  all  imaginable 
circumstances.  ...  At  the  same  time  she  says  to  us: 
'You're  immoral,  unnatural,  and  selfish,  if  you  don't 
replenish  the  Race.  Go  and  do  it!'  Consequently,  when 
one  is  ordered  in  that  bullying  way  to  choose  between 
immorality  and  ugliness,  one  calls  out :  '  Oh !  do  let  me  be 
pretty,  please!'" 


i66  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

A  soldierly,  good-looking  man,  sitting  with  a  charming 
girl  in  a  particularly  smoky  corner,  lazily  propounded: 

"Why  do  women  covet  prettiness  beyond  every- 
thing?" 

"  To  please  men,  I  rather  surmise, "  said  Lady  Beauvayse, 
turning  her  Romney  head  in  the  direction  of  the  speaker, 
who  queried : 

"Ah!  but  why  do  women  want  to  please  men?" 

"I  can  answer  that,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Charterhouse. 
"Because  she  who  pleases  is  perfectly  sure  of  having  a 
gorgeous  time." 

"It  has  been  said  by  some  inspired  idiot,"  lisped  Lady 
Wastwood  "that  women  make  themselves  beautiful  for  the 
sake  of  their  own  sex.  Give  us  your  opinion  on  this  ques- 
tion, Count  von  Herrnung.  Did  I  put  on  this  perfectly 
devey  frock  for  Miss  Saxham,  or  for  you?" 

"Gnddige  Grdfin,  for  neither  myself  nor  Miss  Saxham. 
For  your  own  pleasure, "  said  von  Herrnung,  "have  you  joy 
in  making  yourself  beautiful. " 

"  You  feel  like  that  when  your  tailor  has  done  you  particu- 
larly well? "  asked  Lady  Wastwood,  wickedly,  looking  down 
her  long,  thin  nose  to  hide  the  sparks  of  himiour  in  her  eyes. 
Half  a  dozen  pairs  of  ears  were  cocked  to  catch  the  answer, 
in  which  von  Herrnung's  characteristic  lack  of  humour 
showed. 

"Gracious  Countess,  certainly.  It  is  prachtvoll  for  a 
cultured  man  to  study  and  develop  his  physical  advantages. 
To  please  women,"  he  made  his  little  insolent  bow,  "who 
adore  Beauty,  and  for  the  sake  of  ingratiating  oneself  with 
men.  But  above  all  for  one's  own  sake.  For  ugliness  is 
despicable,"  said  von  Herrnung.  His  florid  face  paled,  his 
hard  blue  eyes  dilated,  he  shivered  as  he  spoke  with  uncon- 
trollable disgust.  "  It  is — niedrig  !  There  is  no  other  word ! 
No  longer  to  be  beautiful  and  strong — that  would  be  hor- 
rible !  There  are  many  ugly  accidents  in  our  German  Fly- 
ing  Service.      Thus   far    I    have   escaped    disfigurement. 


A  Modern  Club  167 

But  when  my  time  comes  I  shall  take  care  to  be  killed  out- 
right.    Better  to  die  than  to  be  made  hideous!" 

"Did  you  hear?"  said  the  man  in  the  distant  comer  to 
the  charming  girl  who  shared  it  with  him.  "The  fellow's 
dead  in  earnest.  And  he  is  uncommonly  good-looking, 
though  I  don't  care  about  the  German  Service  type  of  man 
myself.  Don't  like  their  clothes,  don't  like  their  jewellery, 
don't  like  their  tone  when  they're  talking  to  women,  and 
simply  loathe  it  when  they're  talking  to  me!" 

"It's  a  case  of  Doctor  Fell, "  said  his  pretty  friend.  "Now 
I  should  admire  him — if  he  admired  himself  a  little  less,  and 
his  valet  or  somebody  with  influence  over  him  could  per- 
suade him  to  cut  that  awful  thumb-nail.  No,  you  can't  see 
it  now.  He's  wearing  a  glove  on  his  left  hand.  But  it 
can't  be  under  two  inches  long. " 

"Queer  kind  of  freak  for  a  Twentieth  Centurion,"  said 
the  man  contemptuously.  "All  very  well  for  the  Imperial 
Court  of  China,  or  a  Stone  Age  make-up  for  a  Covent  Gar- 
den Fancy  Ball.  But  for  a  London  drawin'-room  in  the 
year  19 14  it  is  a  little  off  the  bull.  We  must  approach 
Miss  Saxham  in  the  matter  of  cutting  it.  She  appears  to 
be  the  Ruling  Star.  " 

His  friend  glanced  across  at  the  big  knot  of  people 
gathered  near  the  ferny  fireplace. 

"They  go  about  together  a  good  deal,  and  he  does  stare 
at  her  in  rather  a  possessive  style.  She's  so  awfully  good 
to  look  at,  isn't  she?" 

"  She  is;  but  she  isn't  quite  so  good  for  you  to  know! " 

"Why?" 

"Could  we  drop  the  subject?  I'll  say  why  later.  Let's 
scoot  now !  With  luck,  we  could  nip  in  for  the  end  of  the 
second  act  of  'The  Filberts'  at  Ryley's  Theatre,  and  see 
Jimmy  Griggson  do  '  The  Dance  of  the  Varalette. 

And  they  rose  and  sauntered  away  in  search  of  entertain- 
ment, leaving  Cynthia  Charterhouse  drawing  out  von 
Herrnung,  who  seemed  in  a  particularly  arrogant  mood. 


i68  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Did  he  like  England  and  London  especially?  Did  he  find 
English  women  as  nice,  generally,  as  the  friends  he  had  left 
at  home? 

"Nice.  ,  .  .  One  is  charmed  with  English  ladies!" 
declared  von  Herrnung.  "So  tall,  willowy,  and  elegant,  so 
independent  of  manner,  and  so  amiably  ready  to  make  a 
stranger  feel  at  home!  True,  they  have  not  the  plumpness 
and  repose  of  our  German  ladies  ...  at  the  theatres 
especially  they  are  rather  thin  than  otherwise.  .  .  .  But 
they  have  gehen  and  chic" — he  showed  his  white  teeth — 
"and  change  is  a  delightful  thing!" 

Patrine,  silent  in  her  settee-corner,  wondered  whether 
Trixie  Wastwood  and  Cynthia  Charterhouse  knew  that  he 
was  insulting  them? 

"  Change  from  a  fat  woman  to  a  thin  one,  is  that  what  you 
mean  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Charterhouse.  She  added :  "  I'm  so  glad 
we  strike  you  as  having  lots  of  go.  Perhaps  it's  a  result  of 
our  being  given  to  exercise,  that  general  effect  of  slimness 
you  mention.  "  But  if  German  women  don't  walk,  or  ride,  or 
skate,  or  fence,  or  swim,  they  do  dance  a  great  deal. " 

"They  dance  a  great  deal,  yes!"  agreed  von  Herrnung. 
"  One  might  say  they  are  passionately  devoted  to  it.  Danc- 
ing is  also  one  of  the  chief  joys  of  a  German  officer's  life — 
when  he  has  handsome  partners  to  choose  amongst!"  He 
added:  "When  one  is  young,  and  the  blood  runs  hot  in  the 
veins,  what  more  glowing  pleasures  can  Life  offer,  than  to 
ride  a  noble  horse,  to  drink  glorious  wine,  or  to  dance  all 
night  with  a  beautiful  woman,  to  the  sound  of  music  volup- 
tuous and  exquisite!" 

Patrine,  behind  the  shelter  of  a  copy  of  the  Pall  Mall 
Gazette,  was  shuddering  uncontrollably.  Her  life  seemed 
driven  back  from  the  extremities  to  centre  about  her  heart. 
In  that  and  in  her  brain  were  glowing  cores  of  fire.  All  else 
was  ice,  rigid  and  heavy  and  cold. 

"Dear  me!"  came  plaintively  from  Mrs.  Charterhouse. 


A  Modern  Club  169 

She  signalled  with  her  eyebrows  to  Lady  Wastwood  and 
continued,  as  the  diaphanous  Trixie  came  drifting  to  her 
assistance:  "Really,  I  shall  have  to  seek  a  delightful  change 
by  going  to  Germany.  I'd  quite  forgotten  how  different 
you  are !  The  way  you  talk  about  your  blood,  and  all  that. 
It's  simply  too  awfully  interesting!  Trixie,  you've  got  to 
listen  to  this!" 

"  I  need  no  telling,  I  assure  you.  I  have  been  drinking  in 
Count  von  Herrnung's  eloquence  at  every  pore,"  affirmed 
Trixie.  vShe  added :  "  Like  you  I  have  been  deeply  intrigued 
by  his  descriptions  of  his  countrymen.  So,  so  different  from 
our  poor  creatures,  who  don't  drink  glorious  wine  because 
they  funk  gouty  complications,  and  leave  their  noble  horses 
eating  their  heads  off  in  loose-boxes  while  they're  scorching 
about  the  country  in  racing-cars.  And  as  for  dancing  all 
night — "  She  shrugged  her  frail  shoulders,  and  elevated 
her  Pierrot  eyebrows  beneath  the  veil  that  tightly  swathed 
her  white  triangular  face. 

"Doesn't  it  fire  you  to  go  to  Germany?"  gushed  Mrs. 
Charterhouse.  "Why" — she  demanded,  raising  her  fine 
eyes  to  the  genuine  Adam  ceiling — "why  can't  my  husband 
get  a  post  in  the  Berlin  Diplomatic,  instead  of  stupid  old 
Petersburg?  One  never  dreamed  Germans  could  be  so 
interesting  before!" 

"We  are  interesting,  yes!"  blandly  agreed  von  Herrnung, 
He  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette,  balanced  his  magnificent  person 
upon  an  inlaid  Oriental  chess-stool,  folded  his  huge  arms 
upon  his  broad  breast,  and  turned  upon  Trixie  and  the 
impressionable  Cynthia  the  batteries  of  his  superb  blue  eyes. 
"  Es  mag  wold  sein — it  may  possibly  be  because  the  English- 
man is  a  human  machine — a  cold  and  formal,  if  intelligent 
being;  while  the  German  is  a  child  of  Nature,  whatever  his 
calling  may  be.  His  bounding  pulses  throb  under  the  official 
or  military  uniform  as  though  it  were  a  fawn-skin  worn  by 
a  young  satyr.  He  can  sing.  He  can  revel.  Hecanenjoy» 
He  can  love " 


I70  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"He  can  love!  Now  you're  getting  really  quite  too 
interesting!"  Mrs.  Charterhouse  exclaimed  in  seeming 
ecstasy:  "Do  go  on,  Count.  Pray,  pray  tell  us  how  Ger- 
man oificers  love!" 

"Yet  this  exuberance,  and  seeming-careless  child-like- 
ness," pursued  von  Herrnung,  "co-exists  in  the  representa- 
tive male  of  our  glorious  German  nation  with  an  energy 
which  is  pitilessly  indomitable,  and  a  hardness  like  that  of 
diamond,  or  of  the  metal  of  the  Hammer  of  Thor.  Scratch 
the  child,  joyous  and  voluptuous" — the  ladies  nodded  to 
each  other  delightedly  at  this  second  reference  to  voluptu- 
ousness— "you  will  find  beneath  its  rosy  skin  the  German 
Superman.  Gnddige  Grdfin,  may  I  give  you  a  cigarette?" 
He  pulled  out  a  massive  silver-gilt  case,  and  offered  it  to 
Lady  Wast  wood,  who  had  thrown  away  the  end  of  a  tiny 
Pera. 

"Thanks,  "  said  the  lady,  "but  it  might  turn  out  a  super- 
cigarette  and  disagree  with  me.  How  astonishingly  well- 
informed  you  Germans  are  upon  the  subject  of  yourselves! 
I've  met  heaps  of  your  countrymen  whom  the  subject 
seemed  perfectly  to  obsess.  I  suppose  they  begin  to  teach 
you  at  a  very  early  age,  don't  they?  Don't  you  suppose 
they  would,  Cynthia  dear?" 

Mrs.  Charterhouse  agreed. 

"  Of  course.  But  I  wonder  if  that  sort  of — might  one  call 
it — intensive  culture? — can  be  good  for  you?"  With  her 
charming  head  on  one  side  she  regarded  von  Herrnung  pen- 
sively. "Don't  you  sometimes  get  fed  up  with  yourselves? 
One  would  somehow  suppose  you  would!  Like  the  East 
End  Board  School  children  whose  mother  had  to  write  to 
the  Fifth  Standard  teacher  to  ask  her  not  to  tell  Hemma 
and  'Arriet  any  more  nasty  things  about  their  insides. " 

Courtley  and  Lady  Beauvayse,  who  under  cover  of  a 
separate  conversation  had  been  listening,  were  seized  with 
simultaneous  attacks  of  coughing,  rose  and  escaped  from 
the  smoking-room.     Patrine  Saxham  remained,  seeming  to 


A  Modern  Club  171 

study  the  newspaper  she  had  picked  up.  But  only  a  con- 
fused jumble  of  letters,  big  and  little,  danced  up  and  down 
the  columns  she  held  before  her  eyes. 

And  yet  there  were  lines  scattered  here  and  there  through- 
out the  newspapers,  that  boded  ill  for  the  peace  of  the  world. 
How  little  we  dreamed  of  what  was  coming  while  crowded 
London  audiences  applauded  Jimmy  Greggson  in  the 
"Dance  of  the  Varalette. "  The  River  was  ablaze  with 
multi-coloured  sweaters,  vast  crowds  planked  their  gate- 
money  to  witness  cricket-matches,  lawn-tennis  and  polo- 
matches.  Flying  contests,  and  bouts  between  International 
champions  at  the  ancient  game  of  fisticuffs. 

Even  while  the  handsome  young  French  heavy-weight 
Carpentier  was  whacking  the  Yankee  Smith  at  Olympia, 
white-faced,  weary-eyed  men  of  great  affairs  were  spending 
the  hot  hours  of  the  July  days  and  nights — minus  a  stray 
half-hour  for  a  meal  and  a  snatched  eyeful  of  sleep  now  and 
then — in  reading  reports  in  cipher  sent  by  lesser  men,  agents 
of  the  Secret  Intelligence  Department — who  were  registered 
as  numbers  and  owned  no  names. 

These  told  of  vast  preparations  long  complete,  and  terrible 
designs  perfect  and  perfecting.  Poison-fruit,  grown  and 
matured  in  shade,  now  bursting-ripe  and  ready  to  kill. 
The  aerials  thrilled,  the  long  waves  travelled  through  in- 
visible ether,  carrying  the  despatches  for  the  weary-eyed 
men. 

The  despatches  were  not  all  in  cipher.  Thus  little  poly- 
glot employes,  youthful  radiotelegraphic  operators  in  charge 
of  ship-stations  in  Territorial  or  foreign  waters,  or  Wireless 
posts  quite  recently  established  on  foreign  frontiers,  found 
themselves  sharers  in  the  secret  councils  of  Ambassadors, 
Emperors,  Kings,  and  Presidents. 

In  their  ear-pieces  such  words  as  "situation,"  "utmost 
gravity,"  "friction  avoided,"  "Triple  Alliance,"  and 
"  Triple  Entente,  "  were  repeated  over  and  over.  To  them 
the  tuned  spark  sang  what  the  Tsar  was  saying  to  his 


172  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Cousin  of  Great  Britain  and  the  Dominions  overseas.  They 
heard  the  British  Foreign  Secretary  talking  from  Downing 
Street  to  the  British  Ambassador  at  Berlin,  and  the  British 
Ambassador  at  Paris,  and  the  French  President,  on  a  visit 
to  Tsarskoe  Selo,  replying  to  communiques  from  the  Quai 
d'Orsay.  Also  de  Munsen  from  the  Embassy  at  Vienna, 
confirming  Whitehall  views  as  to  the  extreme  gravity  of  the 
Austro-Servian  situation. 

Last,  but  not  least,  the  voice  from  a  certain  guarded 
sanctum  in  the  Kaiserlicher  Palais  on  the  Schloss  Platz, 
Berlin,  sajdng  in  a  cipher  of  grouped  numbers,  the  secret 
language  of  Hohenzollern  intrigue  not  understood  of  little 
operators — things  that  bleached  the  face  of  the  listener  in 
London  to  the  yellow  of  old  cheese. 

"As  Vicegerent  of  the  World,  charged  by  Almighty  God 
with  the  supreme  duty  of  maintaining  peace  among  nations 
.  .  .  warn  these  silly  devils  of  the  danger  in  which  they 
stand!  Just  for  the  word  'neutraHty' — a  word  in  War- 
time often  disregarded  — they  risk  annihilation  of  a  dynasty 
by  my  conquering  sword,  and  the  inevitable  blotting-out  of 
the  British  race.  Invasion  Belgium  indispensable.  .  .  . 
Must  strike  the  blow  before  Russia  could  get  to  the  frontier. 
Life  and  death  as  regards  the  Success  of  my  Plan.  Delay 
by  diplomacy.  Promise  anything  for  neutrality.  Obtain 
an  understanding  of  non-intervention.  Bluff  for  all  you  are 
worth!" 

Again  in  yet  more  groups  of  numbers,  the  vocal  spark 
sang  on  and  on: 

"Attention.  If  the  Secret  Service  agent  who  has  man- 
aged to  get  into  Lord  Clanronald's  service  as  under- 
librarian  at  Gwyll  Castle  can  secure  complete  copies — or 
better  still,  the  originals — of  the  old  Lord's  plans  for  con- 
struction of  the  secret  War-machine  that  hypocritical  Eng- 
land has  kept  up  her  sleeve  out  of  so-called  humanity  since 
the  days  of  the  British  Regency — strike  a  deal  with  him  at 
once.     To  the  menu  that  will  presently  be  served  to  our 


A  Modem  Club  i73 

enemies — beginning  with  Super-Explosive — explosive  bul- 
lets, incendiary  shells,  lachrymatory  shells  serving  as  entrees 
— the  bombardment  of  Dover  from  Calais — the  destruction 
of  London  and  the  chief  Naval  Ports  of  Great  Britain  by 
our  Zeppelin  Fleet  being  the  piece  de  resistance  of  the  ban- 
quet— the  Clanronald  Death-engine  will  be  added  as  fifth 
course !  Thou  wilt  pay  the  rogue  who  has  dared  to  stickle 
for  higher  terms  ten  thousand  pounds  in  English  bank- 
notes on  account  of  the  sum  of  twelve  million  marks  he 
presumptuously  demands  of  us.  The  balance  will  be  paid 
him  on  personal  application  at  the  Wilhelmstrasse — you 
understand!  Warn  Prince  Henry  and  von  Moltke  not  to 
risk  bringing  the  Secret  Plans  personally.  Should  the  loss 
of  the  documents  be  discovered,  suspicion  would  in- 
stantly attach  to  one  of  these  two.  Trust  not  the  thief; 
he  may  be  tempted  to  betray  us.  Send  the  plans  by  Un- 
dersea Boat  1 8  now  on  coast-observation  duty  in  Area  88 — 
fathoms  50 — 44,  east  of  Spurn  Head.  Annulled.  Forward 
by  air.  Squadron-Captain-Pilot  von  Herrnung  of  my  loth 
Field  Flight  will  be  detailed  for  this  duty,  being  now  in 
London  investigating  the  value  of  a  new  stabiliser — rejected 
by  the  English  War  Office — which  the  French  Chiefs  of  the 
Service  Ae  are  anxious  to  secure.  Tell  him  to  obtain 
a  personal  flying-test  from  the  inventor.  I  say  no  further! 
As  the  Hohenzollern  were  noble  robber-knights,  so  also  were 
von  Herrnung's  ancestors.  Let  the  eagle  fly  home  to  his 
Imperial  master  with  booty  from  across  the  sea.  England 
may  suppose  him  drowned.  France  also.  .  .  .  We  shall 
know  better.  ...  A  hearty  welcome  awaits  the  proud 
bird-knight  alighting  on  our  German  soil.  " 


CHAPTER   XXIV 


DISILLUSION 


Rhona  Helvellyn  came  stalking  in,  looked  round,  recog- 
nised Patrine,  came  over  and  dropped  down  beside  her  on 
the  divan,  full  to  the  brim  of  the  invariable  subject,  and 
suffering  to  talk. 

Through  the  good  offices  of  a  legal  pal  she  had  got  in  to 
hear  the  Suffragette  Trial  at  the  Old  Bailey  that  day.  Fan 
Braid  and  Kitty  Neek  had  been  frightfully  plucky.  Full  of 
grit  and  vim,  in  spite  of  the  six  weeks'  hunger-strike.  Began 
shrieking  like  Jimmy  O!  the  moment  they  were  brought 
into  the  dock  by  the  warders  and  wardresses.  On  being 
rebuked  by  the  Judge,  Fan  had  bunked  a  bundle  of  pam- 
phlets at  the  head  of  his  lordship,  catching  the  Clerk  of  the 
Court,  who  was  seated  immediately  underneath  the  Bench, 
no  end  of  a  biff  in  the  eye. 

"And  then?" 

Patrine  heard  a  strange  voice  from  her  own  stiff  lips  ask- 
ing the  question. 

"Then  both  of  'em  were  removed  from  the  Dock.  It  was 
done — in  time!"  Rhona's  light  eyes  danced  with  enjoy- 
ment. " Such  a  scrimmage !  Such  a  rumpus!  Took  three 
men  and  a  woman  to  tackle  each  of  'em.  We  could  hear 
'em  giving  tongue  all  the  way  down  to  the  cells.  Then  they 
had  to  go  on  with  the  Trial  without  'em."  She  chuckled. 
"You  may  guess  there  were  a  lot  of  us  at  the  back  of  the 
Court  waiting — just  for  that!  Perfect  wadge  all  together. 
Hell  and  trimmings  when  we  started.  They  had  to  eject 
us  before  they  could  jog  on  with  their  gay  old  summing-up ! " 

"But  in  the  end  they  got  through?"  The  weary  voice 
was  so  unlike  Patrine's  that  she  wondered  why  Rhona  did 

174 


Disillusion  i75 

not  jump  and  stare  at  her.  But  Rhona  was  mounted  on  her 
hobby-horse,  and  unobservant  of  other  things. 

"Through  right  enough!  And  Fan  and  Kitty—" 
Rhona  screwed  up  her  lips  into  the  shape  of  a  whistle,  and 
winked  away  a  tear  that  hung  on  one  of  her  fair  eyelashes; 
"  It's  too  brutal!  Three  months  each,  and  poor  little  Kitty 
dying  of  lung-trouble.  They  only  brought  her  back  from 
Davos  in  May.  That  riles  me ! "  She  clenched  her  hands 
fiercely  and  went  on,  cautiously  lowering  her  tone :  "So  far 
I've  taken  no  active  share  in  any  Militant  Demonstration. 
Partly  because  I'd  be  wiped  off  the  Club  books  if  I  got  spout- 
ing in  public,  or  was  mixed  up  in  any  police-court  business, 
partly  because  I'm  funky — there's  the  word!  But  at  last 
I'm  wound  up!  It  was  Kitty's  little  peaky-white  face  did 
it!  .  .  .  She — she  broke  a  blood-vessel  as  the  warders 
were  carrying  her  down  to  the  cells." 

A  sob  choked  Rhona's  voice,  and  a  spasm  of  misery 
wrenched  her.  She  controlled  herself.  She  was  deadly  in 
earnest — wound  up  to  go,  as  she  had  said.  She  went  on, 
talking  rapidly,  in  a  tone  that  only  reached  the  ear  it  had 
been  meant  for.  How  many  such  secret  disclosures  the 
Club  divan  had  known. 

"I've  thought.  .  .  .  A  regular  swarm  of  Distinguished 
French  and  Belgian  Big  Pots  and  Little  Pots — Mayors — 
Prefects  and  Deputies,  Judges,  Press  Representatives  and 
Inspectors-General — are  engaged  in  Discovering  England 
this  week  as  ever  is.  It's  an  echo  of  the  Entente  Cordiale. 
Behind  the  badge  of  the  International  Advancement  As- 
sociation— I've  got  one! — I  might  drop  in  at  one  of 
their  farewell  speechifications,  I  believe  the  next's  on 
Friday  at  Leamington — and  heckle  'em  like  one  o'clock! 
Ask  'em  why  women  don't  have  the  Vote  in  France  and 
Belgium " 

"Don't  they?" 

"Nix  a  bit!  Not  for  all  the  fuss  they  make  about  the 
sex.     Or — to  fix  the  scene  of  my  maiden  effort  nearer  home 


176  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

— there's  a  Banquet  of  Archbishops,  Bishops  and  their 
wives  at  the  Mansion  House  to-morrow  night.  Music  just 
after  the  flesh-pots  and  before  the  speeches  or  after — a  select 
company  of  Concert  Artistes,  the  gemmen  in  boiled  shirts 
and  the  usual  accompaniments;  the  ladies  in  white  with 
black  sashes  and  black  gloves.  And  that's  where  I  shall 
come  in — in  white  with  black  trimmings.  Land  of  Hope 
and  Glory ! — when  I  get  up  and  ask  the  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury to  plump  for  Female  SufErage! — or  shall  it  be  the 
Lord  Mayor?  .  .  .  Won't  my  Uncle  Gustavus  burst  the 
buttons  off  his  episcopal  waistcoat.  You've  seen  him. 
He's  Bishop  of  Dorminster — and  they  fasten  'em  at  the 
back." 

"Let  the  Bishop  keep  his  buttons  on!"  said  Patrine, 
suddenly  and  savagely.  "What  the — devil  does  it  matter 
whether  women  get  the  Vote?  Would  we  keep  it  if  we  got 
it,  or  throw  it  away — oh!  idiots — idiots! — to  gratify  some 
vulgar  vanity,  or  some  beastly  sensual  whim?" 

"  Gee-whillikins ! "  Rhona  whistled  shrilly  in  astonish- 
ment. "Why,  I  thought  you  were  one  of  Us.  Not  actively 
militant,  but  a  sympathiser,  no  end.  Didn't  you  get  our 
Committee  in  touch  with  Mrs.  Saxham,  when  we'd  set  our 
hearts  on  having  her  speak  at  the  Monster  Meeting  of 
Women  we're  going  to  have  in  October  at  the  Grand  Im- 
perial Hall?  She's  promised  to  address  us  on  Suffrage  and 
we're  all  over  ourselves  to  hear  her.  That  last  article  of 
hers  in  The  National  Quarterly — 'The  Burden  of  Tyre,'  has 
collared  the  literary  cake.  People  tell  me  who've  read  it 
that  she  doesn't  care  a  hang  about  the  Vote  for  Women  in 
any  other  sense  than  that  it'd  open  a  gateway  to  legislation 
on  the  Sex  Question  of  a  much  more  drastic  kind.  She'd 
bring  in  a  Bill  to  have  moral  offences  against  children 
dealt  with  by  a  Jury  of  Mothers — a  lot  they'd  leave  of  the 
offender  once  they'd  their  claws  on  him! — and  make  it 
a  Life  Sentence  every  time,  for  the  fellow  who  seduces  a 
girl." 


Disillusion  177 

Patrine  listened  in  stony  silence.     Rhona  chattered  on. 

"Of  course  the  work  she  does  amongst  those  unlucky 
wretches — young  girls  and  women  who've  come  to  gi"ief — 
is  topping.  But  why  waste  herself  rescuing  prostitutes  and 
street-walkers?  Aren't  any  of  us  good  enough — or  bad 
enough  to  interest  her?  I'm  going  to  ask  her  that  when 
you  introduce  me — remember  you've  promised  to!" 

Patrine  said  in  a  voice  jarred  and  harsh  with  anger: 

"Since  your  declared  intention  is  to  be  offensive  to  Mrs. 
Saxham,  whose  shoes  neither  you  nor  myself,  nor  any 
woman  of  our  set  is  worthy  to  unlace,  I  take  back  the  pro- 
mise, if  it  was  ever  given ! " 

"What's  up?"  Rhona  turned  and  stared.  "I  say! — 
but  you  look  fearfully  seedy!  Worried  about  Margot,  is 
that  it?"  She  was  off  on  another  tack,  carried  by  the  light 
shifting  breeze  of  her  imagination.  "  Poor  little  Margot ! — 
in  spite  of  good  advice  and  top-hole  mascots — booked  for 
the  Nursery  Handicap — and  out  of  the  running  for  a  year ! ' ' 

"Who  told  you— that?— about  Margot?" 

•"  Melts — the  head  housemaid  here — had  it  from  Kittum's 
maid  Pauline,  who  dropped  in  to  fetch  away  some  stored 
luggage  of  her  ladyship's.  .  .  .  They've  furnished  a  house 
at  Cadogan  Place — Margot  and  her  Franky-wanky.  West 
End  enough,  and  quite  exquie  inside,  but  not  as  convee  as 
the  dear  old  Club.  But — I  believe  I'm  boring  you.  "  Her 
nimble  glance  left  Patrine's  face,  and  darted  in  the  direction 
of  von  Herrnung.  "Who's  the  big,  good-looking,  carroty 
man,  gobbling  you  up  with  his  eyes  while  he's  talking  piffle 
to  Cynthia  and  Trix  ?  Now  I  remember — I  have  heard  some 
hints  of  your  going  over  to  the  Common  Enemy.  "  Rhona's 
sharp  light  eyes  sparkled  like  polished  gold-stones.  "Is 
that  the  reason  why  you've  bleached  your  hair?  What  a 
putrid  shame  of  you!  And  the  Enemy's  a  foreigner — a 
German!     Did  he  give  you  that  gorgeous  ring?" 

Upon  the  third  finger  of  Patrine's  left  hand  was  the  mag- 
pie pearl  set  in  platinum,  gleaming  to  its  wearer's  fevered 
12 


178  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

fancy,  like  some  malignant  demon's  eye.  Rhona  caught  the 
hand,  and  uttered  a  little  squeak  as  Patrine  wrenched  it 
away.  She — Patrine — was  driven  beyond  endurance:  her 
self-command  was  breaking.  Her  hair  seemed  to  creep 
upon  her  tingling  scalp.  Down  her  spine  and  along  the 
muscles  of  her  thighs  passed  slow  recurrent  waves  of  physi- 
cal anguish.  She  could  have  screamed  aloud,  torn  her  gar- 
ments, set  her  teeth  in  her  own  flesh.  But  she  mastered 
herself  sufficiently  to  say: 

"I  won  the  ring  over  a  bet  in  Paris.  You  can  see  for 
yourself  I  don't  wear  it  on  the  engagement  left.  Do  not 
despair  of  me.  At  this  moment  I  do  not  particularly  esteem 
women.  But  on  the  other  hand,  I  absolutely  abominate 
men!" 

"Hope  for  you  then,  politically  speaking,"  said  the  mis- 
anthropic Rhona.     "What,  are  you  going?" 

Patrine  had  thrown  aside  her  paper  and  risen,  towering 
over  her.  She  nodded  without  speaking,  and  went  out  of 
the  smoking-room,  crumpling  the  letter  she  had  written  in 
her  strong  white  hand.  She  would  not  post  it,  she  told  her- 
self as  she  passed  through  the  outer  lounge.  She  would  go 
and  look  up  Uncle  Owen  at  Harley  Street.  She  spoke  a 
word  to  an  agile  hall-boy  in  the  vestibule  and  he  skipped 
out,  and  signalled  a  taxi-cab. 

A  handsome  Darracq  four-seater,  enamelled  bright  yellow 
and  fitted  in  ebonized  steel,  was  waiting  by  the  kerbstone. 
As  the  taxi  manoeuvred  to  get  round  it,  von  Herrnung's 
voice  said,  speaking  behind  Patrine : 

"  Stop  the  boy,  that  machine  will  not  be  wanted.  .  .  . 
I  have  here  a  car  that  is  lent  me  by  a  friend. " 

She  turned  and  saw  him,  standing  hat  in  hand.  His  tone 
was  pleasant,  and  he  was  smiling.     He  went  on: 

"He — my  friend — is  a  Secretary  of  our  German  Embassy. 
He  has  three  automobiles — why  should  he  not  lend  me  one  ? " 
He  replaced  his  hat  and  pulled  a  curved  gold  cigar-case  out 
of  the  breast-pocket  of  his  waistcoat  asking:  "I  may  light 


Disillusion  179 

a  zigarre  after  these  stupid  cigarettes  I  have  been  smoking  ? 
It  will  not  be  unpleasant  to  gnddiges  Frdulein  ?" 

His  courtesy  insulted.  His  smile  was  an  outrage.  She 
controlled  the  trembling  of  her  lips  with  difficulty.  Whether 
he  observed  or  not  was  uncertain,  he  seemed  to  busy  himself 
solely  with  the  selection  and  kindling  of  his  cigar. 

"  Pardon  that  I  get  in  first,  as  I  shall  be  driving! "  he  said, 
and  threw  away  the  smoking  vesta,  pushed  back  the  hall- 
boy  who  was  wrestling  with  the  door-handle,  got  in  and  took 
his  place  at  the  steering-wheel,  beckoning  to  Patrine. 

"Thanks,  but  I  cannot.  ...  I  am  going  to  Berkeley 
Square." 

"  I  will  drop  you  at  Berkeley  Square. "  He  met  her  eyes 
hardily.  "You  will  not  refuse  me  this  pleasure,  when  I 
have  not  seen  you  since — "  The  slight  significant  pause 
stabbed  as  it  had  been  meant  to.  He  saw  her  wince,  and 
finished:  "Since  two  days.     Will  you  not  get  in?" 

She  took  the  seat  beside  him.  He  stretched  his  arm 
across  her  knees  and  shut  the  door  neatly.  She  leaned  back 
to  avoid  his  touch,  and  he  smiled,  feeling  her  shudder.  Her 
eyes  were  on  his  gloved  left  hand  as  he  drew  it  back. 

He  manipulated  the  electrical  starter  and  the  yellow 
Darracq  moved  up  and  out  of  Short  Street.  Patrine  stared 
before  her,  sitting  rigid  in  her  place.  Not  once  did  her 
glance  visit  him.  But  every  skilful  movement  of  his  hands 
upon  the  steering-wheel,  every  creak  of  the  springy  leather 
cushion  under  his  great  body,  every  tightening  of  his  mouth 
or  twitch  of  his  thick  red  eyebrows,  were  photographed 
upon  her  brain. 

He  was  irreproachably  got  up  in  thin,  loose  grey  tweed 
morning  clothes,  cut  by  a  West  End  tailor,  and  his  feather- 
weight grey  felt  hat  testified  to  the  make  of  Scott.  His 
knitted  silk  tie,  a  combination  of  electric  blue  and  vivid 
yellow,  was  a  discordant  note.  Patrine  was  certain  it  must 
have  been  the  work  of  some  other  woman  in  Berlin.  The 
heavy  flat  gold  ring  through  which  the  ends  were  drawn 


i8o  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

was  set  with  a  ruby  and  two  diamonds,  another  false  note 
that  jarred  her  painfully.  But  he  was  looking  strong  and 
well  and  in  admirable  condition.  His  blue  eyes  were  bright, 
his  red  hair  and  his  tightly-rolled  moustache  glittered  in  the 
sunshine,  there  was  a  bloom  of  perfect  health  upon  his  florid 
skin. 

If  Patrine  did  not  look  at  von  Herrnung,  his  eyes  were  less 
abstemious  with  regard  to  her.  Under  cover  of  their  short 
red  eyelashes,  they  scrutinised  her  from  time  to  time. 
There  was  unbridled  curiosity  in  their  regard,  and  also  a 
retrospective  vanity,  admiration,  and  resentment  as  well. 

She  rode  the  high  horse.  She  was  hellishly  sure  of  herself. 
Sure  of  von  Herrnung,  it  might  be.  This  passed  in  his  mind 
as  he  said  to  her: 

"  Do  you  know  that  this  car  has  had  the  honour  to  carry 
the  Emperor  of  Germany?  When  Sei7ie  Majestdt  paid  a 
visit  to  England  in  the  year  1907,  he  used  it  every  day. " 

Patrine  returned  indifferently : 

"  It  seems  to  go  smoothly. " 

Von  Herrnung  said,  as  the  car  obeyed  every  motion  of 
his  practised  hands  upon  the  steering-wheel: 

"It  is  a  wonderful  traveller.  It  has  been  fitted  with  a 
Heinz  motor,  three  times  more  powerful  to  its  weight  than 
any  other  known  petrol-engine.  Some  journeys,  I  can  tell 
you,  it  has  had  with  the  All  Highest.  Travelling  incognito, 
driven  always  by  a — certain  young  Prussian  officer;  then  of 
Engineers — attached  to  the  Personal  Staff  specially  for  this 
work. " 

"I  daresay  you  mean  yourself?" 

"That  is  a  clever  piece  of  guessing;  I  congratulate  you, 
gnddiges  Frdulein.  Well,  it  is  now  no  secret.  I  do  not 
object  to  admit  having  been  the  young  Leutnant  in  the  case. 
So  now  you  know  how  I  gained  my  flair  for  English  scenery 
and  my  violent  penchant  for  English  beauty.  A  weakness 
of  which  I  am  rather  proud,  since  it  is  one  the  Emperor 
shares. " 


Disillusion  i8i 

The  final  sentence  might  have  conveyed  a  jeer.  But 
Patrine  was  not  listening.     She  called  to  her  companion: 

"You  are  driving  in  the  wrong  direction  for  Berkeley 
Square,  but  it  does  not  matter.  Please  put  me  down  just 
here  at  the  corner  of  Harley  Street.  I  can  leave  this  letter 
at  a  house  there  instead  of  putting  it  in  the  pillar-post. " 

"You  are  not  getting  out,  gnddiges  Frdulein.  You  are 
coming  with  me  to  Hendon.  I  have  there  a  little  business 
which  will  occupy  an  hour. "  He  added  with  a  familiarity 
that  stung,  looking  at  the  tense  white  profile  and  the  black 
brows  knitted  in  anger:  "You  are  yourself  to  blame  that  I 
cannot  part  with  you.  You  are  really  as  magnificent  by  day 
as  by  evening — with  your  so-gloriously-coloured  hair.  May 
I  also  congratulate  you  on  the  effective  costume?  Black 
and  white  are  our  Prussian  colours.  I  take  that  as  a  per- 
sonal compliment." 

"  Take  it  as  you  like,  it  will  not  make  it  one. " 

"  Sehr  gutig.  I  do  not  need  telling.  When  I  want  things 
I  take  them.     It  is  a  habit  of  mine. " 

He  spoke  sheer,  brutal  truth.  Oh  God!  what  of  Patrine's 
had  he  not  coveted  and  taken,  only  two  horrible  days  ago. 

"So, "  he  went  on,  "you  will  have  to  post  your  letter.  I 
will  stop  at  a  Postammt  and  drop  it  in  for  you.  You  see,  I 
am  greedy  of  your  society.  At  any  moment  I  may  be 
recalled  to  Germany.  One  must  catch  the  Bird  of  Happiness 
and  hold  it  while  one  can.  Nov/  tell  me,  is  not  that  a  pretty 
speech?" 

"Extremely,  but  it  does  not  alter  the  situation.  I  have 
a  particular  appointment.  I  cannot  go  to  Hendon  with 
you." 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  we  are  going  there.  Grosse 
Gott!"  His  tone  was  savage.  "How  is  it  that  you  are  so 
confoundedly  stubborn?  Do  you  think  such  behaviour 
sensible — or  wise?" 

"  I  am  certainly  wiser  than  I  was  two  days  ago. " 

He  slewed  his  head  round  to  look  at  her  with  a  greedy 


1 82  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

curiosity.     He  saw  the  lines  of  face  and  figure  grow  rigid, 
and  her  bare  hands  clench  themselves  together  in  her  lap. 

He  glanced  at  her  ringed  hand,  then  transferred  his  regard 
to  his  own  left  hand,  the  glove  upon  which  he  had  retained 
at  the  Club.  The  soft  dressed  suede  bulged  as  though  a 
bandage  were  concealed  underneath.  She  averted  her  eyes 
hastily  as  though  she  shunned  some  ugly,  sickening  spec- 
tacle.    He  said: 

"  I  see  that  you  honour  me  by  wearing  my  mascot.  The 
magpie  pearl  most  excellently  becomes  your  beautiful  hand, 
my  dear!" 

They  had  reached  Regents  Park  Square  and  were  turning 
into  the  Broad  Walk.  She  plucked  the  ring  from  her  bare 
finger,  and  held  it  out  to  him,  saying  in  a  low  tone: 

"  Please  take  it  back ! " 

"  I  am  to  take  it  back  ?   .    .    .     You  are  in  earnest  ? " 

She  repeated  her  words,  holding  out  the  bauble.  He 
released  his  gloved  left  hand  from  the  steering-wheel  to 
take  it.  His  eyes  were  on  the  road  ahead  and  his  face  was 
hard  as  pink  stone.  But  she  heard  him  give  a  little  sigh  of 
relief  as  he  slipped  the  ring  into  an  inside  coat-pocket.  He 
said,  as  though  to  excuse  the  sigh : 

"  It  was  given  me  in  April,  when  I  made  my  raid  on  Paris 
from  Hanover,  landing  my  Alhatros  once  only  during  two 
days'  flight.  The  weather  was  magnificent.  My  engine 
gave  no  trouble.  That  is  why  I  call  the  ring  my  mascot, 
you  understand.  Now  that  it  has  been  worn  by  you,  it  is 
more  precious  than  when  I  first  received  it.  Whenever  I 
look  at  it,  it  will  speak  to  me  of  you.  " 

"Don't  let  it!" 

"Why  should  it  not  speak  of  you?  Isis!  My  heart's 
Queen!" 

"I  have  told  you — don't  revolt  me  with — piffle  of  that 
kind.  And  don't  touch  me,  unless  you  want  me  to  jtunp 
out  of  the  car!" 

A  voice  that  he  barely  knew  had  issued  from  the  face  she 


Disillusion  183 

turned  on  him — a  face  all  violet  shadows  and  haggard  drawn 
lines,  under  the  burning  splendour  of  the  dead  beech-leaf 
hair.  She  vibrated  like  an  electrified  wire,  and  round  her 
pale  pinched  mouth  and  about  her  blue-veined  temples  were 
little  points  of  moisture,  fine  and  glittering  as  diamond-dust. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  my  touch  is  unpleasant  to  you? 
That  you  are  angry  with  me  ?  That  you  do  not  love  me  any 
more?" 

''Love.   ..." 

She  laughed  out  harshly,  hugely  disconcerting  him. 

"Lady  Wathe  said  at  that  Grand  Prix  night  dinner  in 
Paris  that  you  were  without  a  sense  of  humour.  But  you 
must  have  a  grain  or  so — to  talk  of  love  to  me ! " 

She  turned  her  face  away,  and  the  exquisite  beauty  of  her 
small  white  ear  appealed  to  him  provokingly.  He  ground 
his  teeth.  He  could  have  thrown  his  arm  about  her,  and 
crushed  the  tall,  full,  womanly  figure  against  him.  How 
superb  she  was  in  her  mood  of  hate.  The  strapped-up 
wound  in  his  left  hand  was  throbbing  and  smarting,  just  as 
when  she  had  writhed  her  head  free  from  his  furious  kisses 
and  bitten  him  to  the  bone. 

He  had  made  her  pay  richly  for  her  bite.  He  hugged 
himself  as  he  remembered.  .  .  .  Now  the  sting  of  desire 
was  renewed  in  him  and  he  eyed  her  with  greediness. 
Presently  he  stooped  and  said  in  her  ear,  coaxingly : 

"Let  us  be  friends!  Dine  with  mc  at  the  Rocroy  to- 
night. We  will  have  a  box  at  the  Alhambra,  and  sup 
again  at  the  Upas.  Say  you  will  come,  loved  one!  Will 
you  not,  Patrine?" 

"No!" 

"No?     But  I  think  you  mean  Yes!     Do  you  not?" 

"I  have  said  No!     Is  that  not  enough?" 

"You  are  mad!"  he  blustered  at  her — "mad  as  a  March 
Jhare!" 

She  answered  him: 

"I  have  been  mad,  but  I  am  sane  now  and  I  stay  so. " 


1 84  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

He  said  scoffingly: 

"  You  may  not  always  remain  as  you  are  now! " 

If  he  launched  a  poisoned  dart,  its  meaning  glanced  aside 
from  her, 

" Shall  you  not  write  to  me  when  I  am  back  in  Germany? 
Not  one  line?  Not  one  single  word?  Yet  I  have  a  few 
little  notes  from  you  that  I  particularly  value.  ..." 

"  Make  the  most  of  them.  I  shall  write  no  more. "  And 
suddenly  her  hate  and  loathing  of  him  reached  boiling  point 
and  ran  over.  "My  God!  Can't  you  understand  that  I 
ask  nothing  better  than  never  to  see  nor  hear  of  you  again ! " 

"Grossartig!  You  are  hellishly  conciliatory. "  His  voice 
was  thick  and  shook  with  anger.  His  smile  mocked  and  the 
look  in  his  eyes  was  hateful  as  he  pursued  in  a  tone  that  was 
now  quite  gentle  and  purring:  "Just  think  a  bit,  my  dear! 
Because — to  burn  one's  boats  behind  one — that  is  not 
prudent  at  all!" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  drove  on  to  Hendon,  planning 
fresh  assaults  upon  this  unconquerable  woman's  pride. 


CHAPTER   XXV 


THREE   MEN    IN   A    CAR 


When  the  yellow  Darracq  car  turned  in  under  the  archway 
that  advertised  Fanshaw's  Flying  School  in  three-foot  capi- 
tals, the  name  revived  no  associations  in  the  mind  of 
Patrine.  She  had  never  visited  the  aerodrome  upon  an  after- 
noon in  the  mid-week,  when  as  in  the  present  instance  prac- 
tice and  instruction  were  being  carried  on.  The  cafes,  no 
longer  crowded  by  smart  people,  were  thinly  patronised  by 
bronzed  young  men  in  overalls,  not  innocent  of  lubricating 
medium,  thirstily  drinking  ginger  swizzle  or  sucking  iced- 
lemon  squashes  through  yellow  straws.  Business-looking 
middle-aged  men  discussed  the  market-prices  of  steels  and 
timbers,  dope  and  fabrics,  over  bitter  beer  and  ham-sand- 
wiches, while  experimenting  amateurs,  male  and  female, 
discussed  in  loud,  relieved  voices  the  experiences  of  the 
premier  flight.  These,  having  been  previously  warned  not 
to  experiment  upon  a  crowded  system,  were  now  ravenously 
putting  in  the  solid,  three-course  lunches  they  had  foregone. 

It  was  a  perfect  July  da}^  hot  and  blue  and  green  and 
golden.  To  the  nor'-west,  you  glimpsed  the  elms  and  oaks 
and  beeches  of  Boreham  Wood,  westward  the  chestnuts  of 
Bushey  and  Stanmore  in  fullest  summer  foliage.  The  haw- 
thorns of  New  Barnet  were  already  browning  in  the  sun. 
Hill  and  common  were  plumy  with  the  brake-fern.  Heather 
and  ling  were  purpling  into  bloom. 

Still  looking  westwards,  you  snatched  a  glimpse  of  Wind- 
sor. Eastwards,  a  diamond  set  in  emeralds,  was  the  Crj^stal 
Palace  at  Sydenham.  Across  the  whitish-grey  scarp  of 
Highgate  and  the  verdant  shoulder  of  heathy  Hampstead 
you  saw  the  dun-coloured  haze  that  is  the  breath  of  London, 

185 


i86  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  huge,  black,  formidable  and  formless  monster,  as, 
sprawling  on  her  ancient  River,  she  keeps  her  envied  place 
in  the  Sun. 

At  the  cafe  end  of  Fanshaw's  enclosure  the  Frogged 
Roumanian  String  Orchestra  were  playing  the  "Dance 
Rhapsody"  of  Delius.  From  a  rival  establishment  came 
the  brazen  strains  of  a  German  band  in  a  death-wrestle  with 
ragtime.  Behind  a  straggling  crowd  of  visitors,  where  the 
cars  that  had  brought  them  were  parked  in  a  double  row, 
von  Herrnung  stopped  the  yellow  Darracq,  leaned  across 
Patrine's  unwilling  knees  and  opened  the  car-door. 

As  Patrine  was  getting  out,  a  large  hand  in  a  white  leather 
glove  was  thrust  forwards  for  her  assistance.  The  owner  of 
the  hand  was  a  square-faced,  fair-haired,  soldierly-looking 
servant  of  the  somewhat  hybrid  type  that  has  replaced  the 
carriage-groom.  He  wore  a  dark  blue  livery  overcoat  with 
silver  braid  upon  collar,  belt,  and  shoulder-straps,  black 
knee-boots,  and  a  white  topped  cap  with  silver  braid,  a  shiny 
black  peak  and  an  enamel  front  badge  in  black,  white,  and 
red.  Looking  past  Patrine,  he  saluted  in  military  fashion 
and  spoke  to  von  Herrnung  in  German,  of  which  language 
Patrine  possessed  a  smattering : 

"Will  the  Herr  Hauptmann  speak  to  the  Herrschaft? 
Upon  business.     Er  ist  sehr  wichtig. " 

Von  Herrnung,  at  the  first  sound  of  the  messenger's  voice, 
had  stiffened  to  rigidity.  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  in 
the  direction  pointed  out  by  the  big  hand  in  the  white  glove, 
and  answered: 

" Say  to  the  Herrschaft  that  I  come!" 

The  groom  vanished.  Von  Herrnung  jiunped  out  of  the 
yellow  Darracq  and  went  quickly  over  to  the  machine  that 
had  been  indicated,  a  large,  superbly-finished  F.I.A.T. 
touring-car  of  the  landau-limousine  type,  enamelled  dark 
blue  with  a  narrow  silver  line  of  finish.  The  top  was  open. 
A  white-capped  chauffeur  in  dark  blue  and  silver  livery  sat 
immovable  at  the  steering-wheel,  and  three  men,  only  one  of 


Three  Men  in  a  Car  187 

whom  was  plainly  visible  to  Patrine,  occupied  the  roomy 
body  of  the  car. 

The  visible  man,  sitting  in  the  forward  seat  with  his  back 
to  the  motor,  his  baldness  topped,  in  deference  to  the 
weather,  with  a  white  felt  Newmarket,  was  a  long-bodied, 
broad-shouldered  personage,  certainly  over  seventy;  clean- 
shaven, with  staring  eyes  of  light  grey  tinged  with  bilious 
yellow,  and  skin  of  a  prevailing  yellow-gre}''  doughiness,  with 
a  huge  wart  in  the  middle  of  the  cheekbone  on  the  side  next 
to  Patrine.  His  clothes  were  of  yellowish-grey  like  his  eyes 
and  skin,  his  linen  had  a  yellow  line  in  it  and  a  huge, 
crumpled  vest  of  buff  nankeen  threw  into  relief  a  flaming 
crimson  satin  necktie  confined  within  bounds  by  a  flat 
jewelled  ring.  lie  had  the  air  of  an  old  actor  of  character 
parts,  or  of  a  libertine  monk  who  has  foregone  the  cord  and 
cowled  habit.  Of  the  two  men  sitting  facing  him  little  could 
be  seen  beyond  the  peak  of  a  gold-banded  white  yachting- 
cap  pulled  rather  low  over  a  bronzed  and  rather  aquiline 
profile  with  an  upward-turned  moustache  and  slighth'- 
grizzled  beard  of  reddish-brown,  and  a  Homburg  straw  with 
a  broad  black  ribbon  and  a  slouched  brim,  overshadow- 
ing the  face  of  the  man  who  sat  on  White  Cap's  left  hand. 
An  astute  and  cunning  face,  his;  long  and  sallow,  with  nar- 
row, blinking  eyes,  a  drooping  nose,  and  a  drooping  black 
moustache.  With  this  its  owner  played  constantly,  twist- 
ing and  pulling  it  with  a  delicate  white  hand  that  wore  a 
diamond  solitaire.  He  never  looked  up,  when  addressed  by 
either  of  his  companions,  but  raised  his  eyes  to  the  speaker, 
and  pivoted,  without  lifting  his  head. 

Von  Herrnung's  friends  were  nothing  to  Patrine,  and  von 
Herrnung's  person  was  by  now  intolerable,  yet  her  eyes 
unwillingly  followed  the  tall,  soldierly  figure  as  he  drew  him- 
self up,  clicked  his  heels  and  uncovered.  A  brown  hand 
went  up  to  the  peak  of  the  white  yachting-cap,  the  wearers 
of  the  straw  Homburg  and  the  felt  Newmarket  slightly 
raised  their  hats.     Von  Herrnung  did  not  speak  first,  he 


i88  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

waited  bareheaded  to  be  spoken  to.  When  the  door  of  the 
big  blue  car  was  opened  by  the  servant  at  an  imperious 
signal  from  the  sallow  man,  von  Herrnung-got  inside,  and 
sat  down  beside  the  personage  with  the  wart  on  his  cheek, — ■ 
leaning  forwards  deferentially  to  be  addressed  by  the 
bearded  wearer  of  the  white  yachting-cap,  who  made  great 
play  with  a  brown  right  hand  that  sported  a  heavy  gold  curb- 
chain  watch-bracelet.  Once  the  hand  clenched  and  shook 
in  vivacious  threat  or  warning,  very  close  to  von  Herrnung's 
handsome  nose.  That  made  Patrine  laugh,  and  instantly 
she  was  angry  with  herself  for  laughing.  She  put  up  her 
long-sticked  sunshade,  turned  her  back  upon  the  blue 
F.I.A.T.  car  and  moved  away  towards  the  part  of  the  en- 
closure where  the  visitors  sat  or  promenaded,  drawing  eyes 
as  she  went  with  her  spangled  silver  headgear  twinkling 
in  the  sunshine,  and  its  black  cock's  plume  waving  over  her 
strangely  coloured  hair. 

So  changed,  so  changed.  She  was  sensible  of  an  alter- 
ation even  in  her  gait  and  gestures.  A  sickness  of  the  soul 
weighed  on  her  body  as  though  she  walked  in  invisible  fetters 
of  lead.  The  free  space,  the  fresh  air,  seemed  to  yield  no 
physical  stimulus.  She  had  bitten  deep  into  the  apple  of 
Knowledge,  and  found  bitterness  and  ashes  at  the  core. 


1 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


A   PAIR   OF    PALS 


Among  a  dozen  pairs  of  masculine  eyes  that  followed  the 
gallant  womanly  figure,  crowned  by  the  plumed  hat  of  silver 
spangles  and  displayed  in  the  frank  unreticence  of  fashion 
by  the  semi-transparent  sheath  of  glistening  white,  a  pair 
very  blue,  very  shiningly  alert  and  interested,  drew  nearer 
until  the  elongated  shadow  of  a  small  boy  in  Scout's  uniform 
mingled  upon  the  sunlit  turf  with  the  longer  shadow  of 
Patrinc, 

His  thumping  heart  had  said  to  him:  "You  know  her!" 
It  was  Pat  and  yet  not  Pat.  Her  tall,  rounded  figure.  Her 
walk.  The  same  face — and  another  woman's  hair.  The 
white  gown  and  the  long  stole  of  black  cock's  feathers  he 
had  seen  before,  and  the  hat  had  previously  fascinated  him. 
He  had  asked  Pat  if  it  were  not  made  of  the  twinkly  stuff 
with  which  they  covered  the  Bobby-dazzlers  on  Christmas 
trees?  She  had  cried  "Yes!"  and  assured  him  that  she 
v/ould  always  hereafter  call  it  her  "  Bobby-dazzler  chapper. " 
.  .  .  And  his  Cousin  Irma,  whom  Bawne  secretly  abomin- 
ated, had  said  it  was  too  bad  to  talk  costermonger  slang  to 
the  child.  ''The  child.'"  ...  A  man  must  be  ready  to 
pardon  an  insult  from  the  unpunchable  female.  But 
Bawne  found  himself  wishing  that  Coiisin  Irma  had  been 
a  boy. 

He  loved  Pat.  You  had  to  love  a  person  who  could  keep 
secrets  as  faithfully  as  Dad  or  Mother,  and  play  tennis  and 
hockey  better  than  a  great  many  gro\vn-up  fellows.  Bowl 
you  out  at  cricket,  too,  middle  bail,  before  you  could  wink. 
She  could  cycle  all  day  without  getting  knocked  up,  and 
swim  a  mile,  easily.     For  these  reasons  Bawne  knew  he 

189 


190  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

loved  her.  But  he  loved  her  most  for  the  reasons  that  he 
did  not  understand. 

"Pat!" 

He  had  screwed  up  his  courage  to  touch  his  crusher  felt 
and  speak  the  name,  but  the  tall  lady  with  the  electrifying 
hair  did  not  seem  to  hear.  Her  long  eyes  looked  at  him  in  a 
blind  way  without  seeing  him.  He  had  never  kissed  this 
frozen,  stranger's  face. 

"I  thought  you  knew  me!  I  most  awfully  beg  your 
pardon!"  he  stammered,  in  scarlet  anguish,  and  the  dull 
eyes  suddenly  came  to  life,  and  the  stiff  lips  smiled: 

"It's  Bawne.  My  sweet,  I'm  glad!  How  did  you  come 
here?" 

"Dad  brought  me  because  he'd  promised,"  the  boy  said 
joyously  as  they  shook  hands. 

"Where  is  Uncle  Owen?" 

"Over  there.  "  Bawne  pointed  to  two  men  talking  apart 
beyond  the  straggling  line  of  spectators,  and  Patrine  recog- 
nised the  great  frame  and  scholarly  stoop  of  the  Doctor, 
standing  with  his  side-face  towards  her,  a  half-consumed 
cigar  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  his  stick,  a  weighty 
ivory-topped  Malacca,  loosely  gripped  in  both  hands  behind 
his  back. 

"And  the  man  he  is  talking  to?  Why — of  course!  It's 
Sir  Roland — how  is  it  I  didn't  recognise  him?" 

"The  Chief  vScout!"  Bawne's  tone  was  one  of  incredu- 
lous wonder.  ' '  But  you  couldn't  have  forgotten  him  !  It — 
isn't  possible!" 

Nor  even  to  a  stranger  did  he  appear  a  personality  to  be 
easily  forgotten,  the  bright-eyed,  falcon-beaked,  middle- 
aged  man,  whose  feather-weight  crusher  felt  was  worn  at  an 
inimitable  angle,  and  whose  slight,  active  figure  set  off  his 
well-cut  morning  suit  of  thin  blue  serge  in  a  way  to  arouse 
envy  in  a  military  dandy  of  twenty-five. 

"You  see,"  Bawne  explained,  ''he  was  talking  business 
with  Father,  so  I  just  took  myself  out  of  the  way. "     He 


A  Pair  of  Pals  191 

added:  "They  hadn't  told  me  to,  but  they  might  have  for- 
gotten. And  so"- — the  big  word  came  out  of  the  childish 
mouth  quaintly — "I  acted  on  my  initiative — you  under- 
stand?" 

"  I  understand.  "  The  formal  handshake  once  over,  their 
fingers  had  not  separated.  She  held  in  her  large,  strong, 
womanly  palm  the  hand  that  was  little,  and  hard,  and  boy- 
ish. It  squeezed  her  fingers,  and  the  squeeze  was  an 
apology.     It  said: 

"I'd  like  you  to  have  kissed  me  if  there  hadn't  been  lots  of 
people  looking.     For,  of  course,  you  know  I  love  you,  Pat ! " 

"And  I  love  you,  Bawne.  We'll  always  love  each  other, 
whatever  happens,"  said  the  answering  pressure.  Her 
spoken  utterance  was : 

"So  these  are  your  holidays!  .  .  .  How  did  3^ou  leave 
them  all  at  Charterhouse?  And — are  you  still  tremendous 
pals  with  young  Roddy  Wrynche?" 

He  said,  with  a  naive,  adorable  gravity: 

"Boys  don't  squabble  like  girls — and  Wrynche  is  a  fright- 
fully decent  fellow.  We  passed  together  from  Shell  into 
Under  Fourth,  and  we've  promised  always  to  stand  by  each 
other!" 

"Good  egg!  And  now,  how  is  it  you're  here?  Has 
Uncle  Owen  given  in  at  last  about  the  flying?" 

"Really  and  truly!  Man  alive!" — Bawne's  character- 
istic expletive — "I've  been  up  to-day  in  the  air-'bus  and — 
wasn't  it  first-class!" 

"Honour?" 

"Honour!  Twice  round  the  aerodrome  with  the  In- 
structor— and  presently  I'm  to  have  a  longer  flight  with  Mr. 
Sherbrand  in  his  monoplane.  " 

"  '  Mr.  Shcrbrand'  ..."  Patrine  repeated  rather  vaguely. 
"Sherbrand"  had  somehow  a  ring  that  was  familiar. 
Bawne  explained: 

"He's  a  great  friend  of  Father's.  He's  splendid.  A 
regularly  topping  chap!" 


192  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"And  you've  actually  flown?" 

"  I've  flewed — and  I  mean  to  go  on  with  it.  "  He  repeated 
the  assurance  more  sedately:  "It's  the  profession  I  have 
chosen.  They  say  you've  got  to  begin  young.  And  my  legs 
wobbled  and  the  ground  rocked  a  bit  when  I  got  down  on  it. 
But  I  wasn't  air-sick  at  all. " 

"Air-sick.  .  .  .     Are  people  .  .  .?" 

Bawne  said  from  the  pedestal  of  superior  knowledge: 

"Oh,  aren't  they  just,  like  anything!  The  Calais-Dover 
steamer-crossing's  nothing  to  it  sometimes — the  Instructor 
told  me." 

Patrine  laughed.  The  latest  circulating-library  novel, 
Love  in  the  Clouds,  had  omitted  to  mention  this  fact. 
The  heroine  had  donned  an  aviator's  cap  and  pneumatic 
jacket,  and  "leapt  nimbly  on  board"  the  aeroplane  in  half 
a  gale  of  wind.  As  the  machine  dipped  and  rose  gracefully 
upon  the  heaving  element  that  cradled  it,  Enid  had  experi- 
enced merely  a  delicious  exliilaration.  Then  a  crisp  mous- 
tache had  brushed  her  rosy  ear.  The  voice  of  Hubert, 
attuned  to  deepest  melody  of  passion,  had  murmured  in  the 
shell-like  organ  of  hearing:  "Little  girl.  At  last  I  have 
3^ou!  .  .  .  Mine,  mine,  my  bride  of  the  swan-path! — mine 
for  ever  and  aye!" 

Bawne  continued,  innocently  discounting  further  state- 
ments on  the  part  of  the  author  of  Love  in  the  Clouds  : 

"He  told  me  before  we  went  up,  you  know.  Of  course, 
when  you're  flying  you  can't  hear  anything  but  the  racket 
of  the  propeller.  It  goes  roaring  through  you  till  your  bones 
buzz,  and  the  very  ends  of  your  teeth  hum.  So  the  other 
man  has  to  yell  at  you  through  a  trumpet,  or  write  to  you 
on  bits  of  paper,  unless  he's  switched  of!  the  engine  for  div- 
ing, and  then  you  don't  feel  like  talking — that's  if  you're  a 
beginner,  you  know.  .  .  .  But  man  alive!  it's  splendid. 
You  must  try  it,  Pat!" 

She  declared,  laughingly: 

"While  a  single  flight  costs  a  brace  of  my  hard-earned 


A  Pair  of  Pals  193 

guineas,  the  sport  is  not  for  me !  Why  haven't  I  got  a  pal 
like  your  wonderful  Mr.  Sherbrand?  I'm  getting  envious — 
you  lucky  infant,  you!" 

It  didn't  hurt  to  be  called  an  infant  by  Pat,  because  she 
never  would  have  done  it  in  a  stranger's  hearing.  And  it 
was  ripping  to  have  her  here,  sharing  his  hour  of  joy. 

He  told  her:  "Father  brought  me  here  as  a  reward  for 
making  a  model  aeroplane.  Reminds  me! — I've  got  to  tell 
you  all  about  that.  But  it's  only  a  toy  and  this  is  the  Real 
Thing.  There's  nothing  worth  having  in  the  whole  world,  " 
added  the  unconscious  philosopher  "unless  it's  real  and 
true!" 

"Am  I  not  real?"  Patrine  asked,  squeezing  his  shoulder. 

"Now  you  are!"  He  said  it  with  an  effort  of  candour. 
"But  when  I  saw  you  a  minute  ago,  I  wasn't — quite  sure.  " 
He  glanced  up  at  her  and  asked  shyly:  "Why  are  you 
different  since  you  have  been  away  in  Paris? " 

"  Different,  how  different? "  She  whipped  her  hand  from 
his  shoulder.  Her  black  eyebrows  knitted,  and  her  face 
stiffened  into  the  strange  mask  that  had  puzzled  him,  under 
the  scrutiny  of  his  clear  blue  eyes.  "  Do  I  seem  changed? " 
she  queried.     And  Bawne  answered: 

"A  little.  I  was  afraid  at  first  you  were  somebody  else, 
because  of" — he  said  it  shyly — "because  of  your  hair. " 

"My  hair?"  she  repeated  blankly,  and  then  said  awk- 
wardly: "The  air  of  Paris  did  that,  darling,  but  it  will  soon 
be  its  old  colour  again!" 

"Will  it  ever  be  just  like  it  was  before?"  asked  Bawne, 
looking  innocently  up  at  her,  and  something  broke  in 
Patrine's  heart  just  then.  She  gave  a  sudden  gasping  sigh, 
and  a  sudden  spate  of  tears  rolled  over  her  thick  undcrlids, 
streamed  down  her  pale  cheeks,  and  fell  upon  her  broad 
bosom,  heaving  under  its  thin  covering  of  filmy  white 
voile. 

' '  Pat !     You're — crying ! ' '     Bawne  had  never  yet  seen  his 
friend  weep,  and  he  was  wrung  between  pity  and  bewilder- 
13 


194  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

ment.     "Who  has  vexed  you?     Who  has  been  hurting 
you? "  he  begged,  and  she  answered  brokenly: 

"No  one!  .  .  .  Someone.  ...  It  doesn't  matter!" 
adding:  "Would  you  punch  him,  if  anyone  had — done  as 
you  say?" 

"  Wouldn't  1?" 

"My  sweet!"  Her  arm  went  round  his  slight,  square 
shoulders.  vShe  doted  on  the  little  amber  freckles  on  his 
pure,  healthy  skin,  the  little  drake's  tail  of  silky  red-brown 
hair  at  the  nape  of  his  brown  neck,  the  half-shy,  half-bold 
curve  of  his  mouth  as  he  smiled,  the  blue  sparkle  of  his  eye 
glancing  sidewise  up  at  her.  vShe  found  in  the  pure  warmth 
and  sweetness  of  the  slight  young  body  leaning  against  her, 
a  healing,  comforting  balm. 

"Why  aren't  you  my  little  brother,  Bawne?"  she  said, 
hugging  him  closer.    He  answered  after  an  instant's  thought : 

"If  my  mother  could  be  your  mother  too,  it  would  be 
jolly!     Not  unless!  ..." 

He  was  not  going  to  take  on  Mildred  for  anybody. 
Patrine  sighed  pensively. 

"That's  what  I  used  to  cry  for  when  I  was  a  little  pig- 
tailed  girl,  my  sonny.  More  than  anything  I  wanted  to 
belong  to  Aunt  Lynette.  But  she's  so  young — only  thirty- 
three.     She  couldn't  be  my  mother. " 

"No."  His  eyes  considered  her  face  gravely.  "Of  course 
not.    You're  far  too  old.    How  old  are  you.  Cousin  Pat?" 

' '  How  old  am  I  ? "  A  shudder  went  through  her.  ' '  Nine- 
teen in  August.     And  I  feel  about  a  hundred  and  one. " 

"That's  'cos  you're  not  well!"  His  eyes  were  anxious 
and  a  little  pucker  showed  between  his  reddish  eyebrows. 
"You're  not  going  to  be  ill — are  you?"  he  asked  in  alarm. 

"Not  I ! "  She  murmured  it  caressingly  in  her  deep,  soft 
voice.  "  My  pet,  don't  worry.  Everything's  all  right  with 
me! — perfectly  all  right  and  0.  K.!  Only  talk  to  me. 
Don't  let  me  keep  on  thinking.  Things  are  never  so — bally 
rotten  if  you  can  stop  brooding  over  them." 


A  Pair  of  Pals  195 

Why  did  she  look  Hke  that?  What  had  somebody  done 
to  hurt  her?  His  boyish  hand  clenched,  the  thumb  well 
turned  in  over  the  knuckles.  Instinctively  Bawne  knew 
that  the  Enemy,  who  had  stamped  that  dreadful  look  of 
frozen  misery  on  the  face  of  his  beloved,  white  as  ivory  or 
old  snow  in  its  strange  setting  of  flaming  tresses — was  of  his 
own  sex. 

All  the  while,  ever  since  Patrine  had  entered  the  gates  of 
Fanshaw's,  the  song  of  the  air-screw  had  not  been  absent 
from  her  ears.  The  tractor  of  the  practice-engine  roared 
fitfully,  like  a  tiger  being  prodded  in  its  den  by  a  spiteful 
keeper's  meat-fork.  The  propellers  of  the  double-engined 
passenger-buses  kept  up  a  steady  droning  as  Fanshaw's 
pilots  followed  the  pointing  arms  of  the  red,  white,  and  blue 
pylons  marking  the  limits  of  the  air-circuit,  or  were  silent 
as  the  machines  dropped  to  earth  within  the  huge  white 
circles  where  a  giant  T  indicated  "Land." 

This  was  not  a  show  day  when  visitors'  half-crowns 
rattled  unceasingly  into  the  boxes  at  the  turnstile.  The 
rows  of  green-painted  chairs  behind  the  whitewashed  iron 
railings  of  the  spectators'  enclosure  were  but  thinly  patron- 
ised by  friends  of  people  taking  passenger-flights.  No 
man  with  a  megaphone  announced  events  forthcoming  or 
imminent.  No  white  flag  fell  for  the  start,  no  pistol  cracked 
signifying  the  conclusion  of  a  race. 

Three  men  occupied  the  Judge's  stand  behind  the  Com- 
mittee enclosure.  One,  small  and  dapper,  in  a  frock-coat 
and  topper,  kept  his  eye  on  what  was  probably  a  stop- 
watch. Another,  stout,  bearded,  and  straw-hatted,  was 
absorbedly  gazing  at  the  sky  through  a  big  pair  of  Zeiss 
binoculars.  The  third,  in  the  uniform  of  a  commissionaire, 
was  an  employ6  of  the  School.  No  one  manifested  any 
particular  interest  in  them  or  their  occupation.  The  sparse 
general  public  were  not  enlightened  as  to  the  reason  of  their 
presence  on  the  Judge's  stand. 


196  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"Talk,"  Patrine  said,  clinging  to  Bawne,  her  slender 
plank  in  moral  shipwreck.  "Tell  me  what  Sir  Roland  and 
the  Doctor  are  waiting  to  see.  What  is  that  thin  man 
doing  with  the  stop-watch  and  the  note-book?  And  the 
fat  gentleman  beside  him,  who  never  leaves  off  staring  at  the 
sky  through  those  big  field-glasses.  Nothing  is  billed  to 
happen — there  are  no  numbers  up  on  the  pylons — yet 
something  seems  to  be  going  on!" 

"Rather!" 

The  boy  broke  into  a  little  gurgle  of  excited  laughter,  and 
began  to  dance  up  and  down  under  the  arm  that  rested  on 
his  neck. 

''Rather!  Didn't  you  know?  How  funny!  Why,  man 
alive,  we're  waiting  for  him!'' 

"For  him?" 

"For  Mr.  Sherbrand.  Father's  friend.  The  Flying  Man 
I've  told  you  about. " 

"  Mr. Where  is  he?"  Patrine  asked  vaguely,  looking 

all  about  her.  In  the  tumult  of  her  thoughts  the  name 
that  had  been  upon  a  crumpled  card  suggested  no  associ- 
ation with  that  so  rapturously  uttered  by  the  boy. 

"There!"  Bawne  pointed  upwards  with  another  of 
the  excited  laughs.  "Carrying  out  a  hovering-test.  The 
man  with  the  stop-watch  is  timing  him,  and  the  other  with 
the  binnocs  is  observing  him.  He's  French — no  end  of  an 
official  swell !  The  French  Government  sent  him,  "  went  on 
the  boy,  with  infinite  relish,  "to  see  Mr.  Sherbrand  test  his 
invention.  He  thought  they  didn't  catch  on,  but  the  hov- 
erer  has  fetched  them.  If  he  hovers  for  twenty  minutes,  ten 
thousand  feet  up,  his  fortune's  made ! — I  heard  a  fellow  say 
so  to  the  Instructor.  Man  alive!  isn't  it  topping  that  you 
and  I  should  be  here  to-day  !'\ 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


SIR  ROLAND  TELLS  A  STORY 


While  yet  the  Bird  of  War  hovered  invisible  at  ten  thou- 
sand feet  of  altitude,  and  the  lungs  of  the  men  aboard  her 
toiled  and  laboured,  and  foam  gathered  about  their  nostrils 
and  lips,  Saxham  stood  talking  with  the  man  who  in  his  eyes 
ranked  above  all  others,  the  tried  and  trusty  friend  of  four- 
teen years. 

In  those  unforgettable  months  of  the  Siege  of  Guelders- 
dorp  you  might  have  noticed  a  crow's  foot  or  so  at  the  corner 
of  the  Chief's  keen  falcon-eyes.  To-day,  their  hazel  bright- 
ness undiminished,  they  looked  at  Life  from  a  network  of 
fine  criss-crossed  lines.  But  Time,  the  spider,  had  spun  no 
web  in  the  fine  alert  brain,  and  the  man's  heart  was  free  from 
crow's  feet  or  wrinkles.  Fresh  and  evergreen,  it  was  as  it 
would  always  be,  an  oasis  of  kindness  for  the  downhearted 
or  weary,  watered  by  the  twin  wells  of  s}Tiipathy  and 
enthusiasm.  He  said,  speaking  to  Saxham  of  the  invisible 
Sherbrand: 

"I  wish  we  had  a  million  like  him!" 

Saxham  answered: 

"I  wish  we  had  several  millions.  He  is  a  fine,  energetic 
type.  A  bit  of  a  hero-worshipper — a  bit  of  a  philosopher,  a 
bit  of  a  stoic :  'He  hath  seen  men  rise  to  authority  without  envy, 
and  schooled  himself  to  endure  adversity,  that  he  might  bear 
himself  the  better  when  his  time  should  come  to  rule. ' " 

"  His  time  is  coming,  or  I  am  no  judge  of  capability.  And 
you  quoted  from  the  Encheiridion  of  Epictetus,  I  think? 
I've  always  found  good  reading-meat  in  that  and  the  Dis- 
courses. Used  to  carry  a  little  sixpenny  copy  about  in 
my  pocket,  until  I  wore  it  to  rags." 

197 


198  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"I  have  often  seen  and  noted  its  raggedness,  and  its 
uncompromising  Isabella-hue ! " 

"It  was  negroid  in  complexion  before  the  Relief  of 
Gueldersdorp.  Perhaps  you  won't  be  astonished  when  I 
tell  you  I  have  got  it  now. "  The  Chief's  smiling  eyes 
narrowed  in  laughter.  "My  wife  has  bound  it  gorgeously, 
and  with  other  volumes  of  my  Siege  library,  it  occupies  a 
special  and  most  sacred  shelf  near  my  writing-desk  at 
home." 

He  went  on: 

"This  fine  fellow  Sherbrand  is  an  old  correspondent  of 
mine.  He  would  say  I  might  tell  you  the  story,  and  I  think 
it's  worth  hearing,  in  a  way.  It  must  be  eight  years  ago, 
when  he  would  be  about  seventeen,  that  he  wrote  to  me  from 
an  engineering  college  at  Newcastle,  to  say  he  had  read 
some  papers  of  mine  on  the  subject  of  scouting,  and  pro- 
posed— if  I  thought  it  would  not  be  presumption  on  his 
part — save  the  mark! — to  enrol  and  organise  a  troop  on  the 
lines  laid  down.  He  wanted  a  definite  code  of  Scout  law  to 
work  on,  and  Rules  and  so  forth,  all  of  which  I  supplied  him, 
you  may  be  sure.  Busy  as  I  was  drilling  and  cub-licking 
the  North  British  Territorials,  I  couldn't  find  time  to  spare 
to  run  up  and  see  the  boy.  So  he  commandeered  a  holiday 
and  motor-cycled  to  Headquarters.  Rode  all  through  one 
night  in  pelters  of  rain,  and  caught  me  in  my  5  a.  m.  tub. " 

"He  meant  business. " 

"  Business — and  it  was  up  to  me  to  encourage  such  gritti- 
ness  and  enthusiasm.  So  I  ordered  coffee  for  two,  and 
bacon  and  eggs  for  half  a  dozen,  and  when  I  had  fed  him  I 
talked.  My  book  wasn't  pubHshed,  but  I  lent  him  some 
proof-sheets.  He  thanked  me,  but  before  he  took  them  he 
had  to  disburden  his  mind. " 

The  fine  simburnt  hand  went  thoughtfully  to  the  grizzled 
moustache,  worn  rather  longer  than  of  old. 

"  He  had  got  something  on  his  mind.  He  had  been  read- 
ing that  old  bogey-book.  Hales  on  Mental  Heredity,  and  the 


Sir  Roland  Tells  a  Story  199 

theory  of  the  transmission  of  base  or  criminal  tendencies 
from  the  parents  to  the  children,  had  haunted  him  night  and 
day.  He  said  to  me,  standing  up  before  me,  looking  about 
as  long  and  thin  as  a  fathom  of  pump-water :  ' My  father  was 
dismissed  from  the  Army  in  War-time,  for  not  backing  up 
his  C.  0.  Is  there  a  kink  in  my  brain  or  a  bacillus  lying 
waiting  in  my  body  that  will  one  day  make  a  slacker  of 
me?" 

Saxham's  sauare  face  was  ashen,  but  the  Chief's  eyes  were 
elsewhere. 

"And  you  told  him ?" 

"I  told  him,  that  whilst  physical  disease  and  deformity 
are  transmissible  from  the  unhealthy  parents  to  their  un- 
lucky offspring,  no  sensible  Christian  regarded  the  theory 
of  inherited  vice  or  crime,  as  anything  but  the  most  perni- 
cious lie  that  the  devil  ever  invented  to  spread  as  a  net  for 
the  catching  of  bodies  and  souls.  That  seemed  to  buck 
him  up!" 

"I  do  not  doubt  it!"  said  Saxham.  He  breathed  more 
freely,  and  his  face  had  regained  its  natural  hue. 

"I  reminded  him,"  went  on  the  Chief,  "that  our  Army 
and  our  Fleet  are  indebted  for  thousands  of  the  finest  men, 
morally  and  physically  speaking,  to  Reformatories  and 
Industrial  Schools  and  Homes.  'Think  of  the  character 
borne  by  Barnardo's  boys, '  I  told  him,  'and  grind  the  scor- 
pion lie  to  pulp  under  your  boot-heel,  whenever  and  wher- 
ever you  find  it  cocking  up  its  damnable  tail !' " 

"So  he  went  back,"  said  Saxham,  "cheered  and  strength- 
ened by  your  sympathy,  as — other  men  have  been  before 
now!" 

"So  he  went  back  to  the  College,  fortified  by  my  bit  of 
nervous  English,  and  worked  at  his  troop  for  all  he  was 
worth.  Raked  in  seventy  in  the  first  month,  and  kept  on 
raking.  He  is  dandy  at  drill  and  organisation,  is  Sher- 
brand.  When  he  left  the  College  they  mustered  three 
hundred  strong."     The  speaker  struck  his  stick  upon  the 


200  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

turf  and  said  emphatically:  "How  it  grows! — how  the 
Movement  spreads  and  gathers  and  ramifies !  Do  you  know 
Saxham,  that  there  are  moments  in  my  life  when  I  am 
tempted  to  be  proud.  When  rank  upon  rank  of  young, 
fresh,  fearless  faces  with  bright  eyes  are  turned  to  me. 
When  thousands  of  active,  lithe,  healthy  young  bodies 
run  out  into  the  open  and  rally  about  the  Chief  Scout.  " 

There  was  a  mist  in  the  bright  eyes  that  his  manliness  was 
not  ashamed  of. 

"Years  ago,  when  the  officer  in  command  of  a  certain 
beleaguered  garrison  was  doing  his  best  to  defend  it,  a  great 
Fear  came  upon  him  in  the  watches  of  a  particularly  anxious 
night.  Perhaps  you  will  guess  what  I  mean,  Saxham? 
The  man  had  not  slept  for  more  weeks  than  I  like  to  re- 
member, and  the  hours  of  rest  in  the  day-time  were  hot-eyed 
staring  horrors  of  insomnia.  He  was — up  against  it!  The 
shrunken  lids  would  not  shut  down  over  his  bursting  eye- 
balls, and  his  jaws  were  clamped  so  that  he  could  not  yawn. 
Then,  on  this  night,  his  Fear  rose  up  and  mopped  and 
mowed  at  him,  and  it  had  the  kind  of  face  that  madhouse 
doctors  and  keepers  know.  He  wasn't  ordinarily  a  'fearful 
man, '  like  Kipling's  immortal  Bengali,  but  now  he  was 
horribly,  sickeningly  afraid!" 

"I  guessed  it,  "  said  Saxham.  " I  realised  what  you  were 
suffering,  but  I  did  not  dare  to  hint  my  knowledge  to  you. 
There  was  no  danger  of  madness.  But  you  were  certainly 
on  the  verge  of  mental  and  physical  breakdown." 

"And  being  in  such  desperate  case,"  said  the  other,  "I 
prayed  to  God  in  my  extremity.  I  promised  Him  if  He 
would  help  me  to  carry  out  my  duty  to  Him,  as  to  my 
earthly  superiors,  and  those  men  and  women  and  children 
who  looked  to  me  as  their  protector  and  guide,  that  I  would 
one  day,  if  He  spared  me,  build  Him  a  big  Temple,  made  of 
the  little  temples  that  are  the  work  of  His  Hands. " 

"And  to-day  the  Temple  is  a  reality!" 

"A  grand  reality.     East,  West,  North,    and   South,  it 


Sir  Roland  Tells  a  Story  201 

spreads  and  widens  and  towers.  It  is  built  of  boys. 
Clean-limbed,  clean-minded,  self-respecting  fellows,  scorn- 
ing vices,  eager  for  service,  sensitive  in  Honour,  chivalrous, 
patriotic,  keen  for  Truth  and  Right.  It  frightens  me, 
Saxham,  when  I  think  what  a  leaven  is  working  through 
these  boys  of  mine,  potential  fathers  of  sons  in  the  ripeness 
of  Time,  for  the  ultimate  regeneration  of  this  vicious, 
degenerate  world.  It  makes  me  understand  how  near  old 
Coleridge  got  to  the  live  heart  of  things  when  he  wrote  the 
Ancient  Mariner.  The  service  of  Almighty  God  is  the  love 
of  your  fellow-man.  But  why  to  me,  and  not  to  another 
worthier,  should  God  have  given  this  wonderful,  glorious 
thing  to  bring  about?  ..." 

"Because  you  are  worthy  of  doing  His  work  for  Him. 
Has  He  not  used  you  as  His  instrtunent  in  my  own 
case?  Should  I  not  own  to  this,  I  who  owe  everything  to 
you?" 

The  other  laid  a  hand  on  the  great  shoulder  of  the  Dop 
Doctor. 

"If  ever  you  owed  me  anything,  Saxham,  you  paid  me 
long  ago!" 

He  was  silent  a  moment  and  said  in  a  lighter  tone : 

"I  am  not  quite  clear  yet  as  to  how  you  met  my  whilom 
Scoutmaster. " 

"Our  acqiiaintance  dates  from  a  cross-Channel  flight  he 
made  in  the  end  of  June. " 

"  I  know.  "  The  Chief  prodded  the  turf  with  his  walking- 
stick.  "A  French  pilot-officer  of  their  Service  Aeronau- 
tique,  a  certain  Commandant  Raymond,  who  flew  here  in  the 
contest  for  the  Ivor  International  Cup  in  May,  had  heard 
of  Sherbrand  and  his  inventions  from  Lamond  of  the  Central 
Flying  School.  He  took  a  shine  to  the  aerial  stabiliser  and 
got  his  Chiefs  to  give  it  a  trial.  That  came  off  on  the 
Grand  Prix  Sunday,  when  Paris  went  wild  over  the  Sara- 
jevo affair." 

"And  scenting  War  in  the  air,  "  said  Saxham,  "Sherbrand 


202  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

promptly  took  wing  for  England  without  waiting  for  the 
decision  of  the  judges  who  were  present  at  the  test." 

"  Did  he?     He  has  keen  scent." 

"Better  now,"  said  Saxham  laughing,  "than  when  he 
came  to  me — on  the  recommendation  of  an  old  patient — 
suffering  from  an  aggravated  form  of  nasal  catarrh.  He  had 
had  it  at  intervals  for  years,  and  suspected  it  to  be  owing  to 
what  he  described,  in  the  language  of  the  engineering-shop, 
as  "a  defect  in  the  air-intake."  He  proved  to  be  right — 
and  I  sent  him  into  the  Hospital,  where  Berry  Boyle  per- 
formed a  slight  minor  operation  which  removed  the  trouble, 
and  left  him  capitally  fit.  Then,  when  he  came  out  of 
the  Hospital,  he  found  a  letter  from  the  French  Consul 
waiting  at  his  office " 

The  Chief  interpolated: 

"Ah  yes.  The  aerial  stabiliser  had  gained  the  suffrages 
of  Messieurs  the  Chiefs  of  the  Aeronautique  Frangaise.  I 
hope  M.  Jourdain's  report  to  his  Government  will  induce 
them  to  buy  the  patent.  For,  judging  by  the  interest  that 
the  representatives  of  another  Power  seem  to  take  in " 

The  Chief  broke  off.  The  smiling  lines  about  his  eyes  and 
mouth  had  vanished  as  he  queried:  "Who  is  the  lady  my 
Scout  over  there  is  squiring?  A  superbly-shaped  young 
woman,  with  hair  of  the  fashionable  terra-cotta  shade.  But 
for  the  hair,  I  should  have  said  it  was  your  niece,  Patrine. " 

Saxham's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  the  Chief's  glance. 
He  said,  and  his  face  looked  hard  as  a  mask  of  stone: 

"Your  memory  for  faces  is  correct  as  usual.  The  lady 
with  the  terra-cotta  hair  is  my  late  brother's  daughter, 
Patrine." 

The  Chief's  familiar  whistle  filled  in  a  space  of  silence, 
with  a  pensive  little  fragment  of  Delius'  Spring  Song,  while 
Saxham's  frown  grew  deeper  and  his  jaw  thrust  out  more 
angrily.     Then  the  well-known  voice  said: 

"  I  am  sorry  that  Miss  Patrine  has  been  tempted  to  follow 
the  fashion.     But  I  regret  still  more  her  choice  of  friends! 


Sir  Roland  Tells  a  Story  203 

I  refer  to  the  German  officer  in  whose  company  your  niece 
arrived  here,  in  a  yellow  Darracq  car,  about  half-an-hour 
ago.  "  The  speaker  made  sure,  with  a  rapid  glance  to  right 
and  left,  that  no  listener  was  standing  near  them,  and  added : 
"I  know  that  I  may  trust  you  as  myself  in  any  private  or 
official  matter.  Between  ourselves  frankly,  I  am  here  to- 
day for  the  purpose  of — keeping  an  eye  on  this  particular 
man! 

The  Doctor's  vivid  blue  eyes  darted  rapier-points  at  the 
other,  from  caves  that  had  suddenly  been  dug  about  them. 
The  General  went  on : 

"The  man  himself  is  no  common  spy,  though  he  may  on 
occasion  act  as  an  agent  or  post-box  for  Secret  Intelligence 
communications.  He  is  an  extraordinarily  able  young 
officer,  a  squadron  captain  in  their  Field  Flying  Service, 
with  some  astonishing  records  to  his  credit,  though  he  was 
an  Engineer  Lieutenant  in  1907  when  he  came  to  England 
as  chauffeur-officer  attached  to  the  Kaiser's  Personal  Staff. 
For  a  comprehensible  reason  his  superiors  desired  him  to 
improve  his  knowledge  of  the  topography  of  the  British 
Isles.  He  certainl}^  did  so,  but " — the  keen  eyes  twinkled — 
"the  record  runs  accomplished  by  von  Herrnung  with  the 
All  Highest  as  passenger,  were  not  unattended,  or  unob- 
served by  us.  That  he  is  well-born  and  well-looking  is  un- 
deniable, and  these  advantages,  with  other  social  gifts,  may 
easily  attract  your  niece,  like  any  other  of  Eve's  daughters. 
But  to  say  the  least  it  is  inadvisable  that  she  should  encour- 
age the  advances  of  this  man,  or  of  any  other  German  of- 
ficer,— when  the  next  forty-eight  hours  may  see  Britain 
and  Germany  at  grips  in  War." 

"That  is  your  opinion?" 

"It  is  my  plain,  unv^arnishcd  opinion,  speaking  as  one  of 
those  who  are  admitted  behind  the  scenes.  Not  that  I  am 
infallible,  but  the  Signs  and  the  Tokens  all  lead  one  way." 
He  lifted  his  lean  brown  hand  and  pointed  eastwards.  "  For 
years  they  have  been  making  ready,  but  now — what  a  frenzy 


204  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

of  ordered  preparation.  What  secret  councils,  what  re- 
iteration of  orders,  what  accumulations  of  stores,  what 
roaring  of  electric  furnaces — I'd  give  my  little  finger  to 
know  what  chemical  they're  making  in  huge  bulk  at  the 
Badische  Anilin-und-Soda  Fabrik,  and  hundreds  of  other 
dye  and  bleaching-powder  works  in  Germany  and  Austria! 
— every  one' backed  up  by  the  German  Imperial  State  or 
the  Dual  Monarchy  on  the  understanding  that  at  the  signal, 
they  are  to  turn  to  and  turn  out — ^what?  Benzine  for 
phenol,  phenol  for  picric,  and  toluene  for  Super-Explosive, 
that's  understood.  But  this  stuff  puzzles  me.  Do  you 
see  the  Senile  Arc  in  my  eyes  yet,  Saxham  ?  It  must  be  that 
I'm  getting  old!" 

He  smiled  his  whimsical  smile  and  went  on : 
"A  day  or  two  after  the  burial  of  the  Archduke  Franz 
Ferdinand  and  his  morganatic  partner,  murdered  by  some 
fanatics  among  the  Greater  Serbs,  a  huge  majority  among 
the  German  military  and  naval  officers  doing  duty  in  their 
Colonies,  or  on  political  service  in  Africa,  were  recalled  by 
Wireless.  Leave  has  been  stopped.  Rolling-stock  in  in- 
conceivable masses  is  being  concentrated  on  the  greater 
strategic  railways,  while  the  official  and  semi-official  Press 
prates  and  gabbles  of  peace  and  neighbourly  goodwill!" 
He  shrugged.  "Things  were  safer  when  they  yelled  and 
foamed  in  convulsions  of  Anglophobia.  Then  one  doubted. 
.  .  .  Now  one  is  sure !  .  .  .  Ah,  I  thought  I  wasn't  mis- 
taken.    Here's  Sherbrand  coming  down!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE    GOD   FROM   THE   MACHINE 

The  dazzling  turquoise  of  the  sky  was  now  streaked  with 
milky  bands  of  haziness.  Dappled  golden-white  cloudlets 
at  the  zenith  made  what  is  known  as  mackerel  sky.  Trails 
of  rounded  stratus  floated  low  in  the  east  and  south-east. 
Long  shadows  of  hangars,  pylons,  semaphore  and  electric 
searchlight-stations,  stretched  over  the  turf  from  westwards, 
crossed  b}^  perambulatory  shadows  of  people  moving  about. 
These  became  stationary,  betokening  that  popular  interest 
was  newly  awakened.  Umbrellas  and  sticks  flourished 
towards  the  sky.  Bawne  gave  a  little  crow  of  delight  as  the 
whitish-brown,  shining  shape  of  the  monoplane  dived  down 
out  of  the  empyrean,  travelling  with  a  bold,  beautiful 
swooping  glide  that  took  away  the  gazer's  breath. 

"Look,  oh  look!"  Bawne  gasped,  leaning  against  Patrine. 
Now  her  tardy  interest  was  genuinely  awakened.  Reach- 
ing the  end  of  its  glide,  the  monoplane  had  regained  the 
horizontal  position.  As  she  flattened  out  and  hung  well- 
nigh  motionless  in  mid-air  with  the  sunlight  beating  on  and 
drenching  her  fragile,  lacy  structure,  she  was  a  thing  of 
beauty  and  of  wonder.  The  hiimming  of  her  tractor  came 
to  you  mingled  with  the  buzzing  of  her  gyroscopic  hoverer, 
like  the  incessant  vibration  of  living,  sentient  wings. 

She  seemed  to  tire  of  hanging  between  earth  and  heaven, 
ceased  buzzing,  tilted  a  wing  sharply  and  began  to  frolic 
after  it  as  a  kitten  runs  after  its  tail  on  a  hearthrug,  or  as  a 
swallow  gambols  on  a  chase  after  gnats,  always  turning 
towards  the  West,  whilst  her  greyish  shadow  danced  and 
skipped  upon  the  gold-white  cloud-surfaces  to  eastwards  a 
long  way  below  her,  like  the  ghost  of  an  aeroplane.     All  the 

205 


2o6  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

time  she  was  gobbling  up  distance,  steadily  descending. 
She  presently  reversed  her  sun-worshipping  tactics,  dived, 
and  spiralled,  banking,  from  west  to  east.  You  saw 
plainly  the  helmeted  heads  and  slightly  hunched  shoulders 
of  the  pilot  at  the  controls  and  the  mechanic  strapped  in  the 
forward  cockpit. 

Soon  she  hovered  again  and  swooped,  so  suddenly  that 
Patrine  nipped  Bawne's  shoulder,  saying  "Great  Scott!" 
under  her  breath.  Another  long  sweeping  glide  brought  her 
close  to  the  green  turf  of  the  aerodrome.  Then,  with  an 
adroit  flexing  of  the  wing-tips,  she  balanced,  flattened,  and 
landed  lightly  within  the  huge  white  circle,  rocking  a  little 
on  her  tyred  wheels. 

The  man  with  the  stop-watch  checked  the  mechanism, 
the  bearded  man  with  the  big  binoculars  lowered  and  closed 
them,  scribbled  in  a  memorandum-book  and  came  down 
the  judge's  stand.  The  Bird  of  War's  mechanic  stayed  in 
his  place,  the  pilot  unhitched  his  body-strap,  pushed  up  his 
goggled  visor,  threw  a  long  leg  over  the  fuselage  and  jumped 
lightly  to  the  ground.  He  staggered  as  he  reached  it, 
recovered  himself  and  stood  breathing  quickly,  as  a  man 
overcoming  giddiness,  or  other  physical  sensation  of  dis- 
tress. 

Tall,  young,  and  lightly  built,  with  long  active  limbs  and 
a  physique  suggestive  of  youth  and  courage  and  enterprise, 
as  he  stood  motionless,  his  eared  and  goggled  cap  now  in 
hand,  the  play  of  sunlight  upon  his  thin  brown  waterproof 
gabardine  and  overalls  made  him  look  like  a  statue  of 
Mercury  wrought  in  pale  new  bronze.  And  with  a  lifting 
of  her  sick  heart  as  though  it  had  suddenly  spread  wings, 
and  soared  into  a  region  of  unlimited  space  and  glorious 
freedom,  Patrine  recognised  her  Flying  Man  of  the  Jardin 
des  Milles  Plaisirs. 

From  what  airt,  of  what  world  unknown,  did  it  blow,  that 
cool,   fragrant  wind  that   then   and    always  heralded  for 


The  God  from  the  Machine  207 

Patrine  his  coming?  It  took  her  by  surprise;  lapped  her 
delicately  about;  enveloped  her  from  head  to  foot  in  its  pure 
invisible  waves.  The  hot,  sore  places  in  her  heart  were 
bathed  and  healed,  the  deep  caverns  filled,  the  little  thirsty 
rock-pools  set  awash  and  brimming.  When  the  sough  of  it 
was  no  longer  in  her  ears  or  the  tug  and  flutter  of  it  among 
the  folds  of  her  garments;  when  she  ceased  to  be  conscious 
of  the  cool  resilient  pressure  upon  cheek  and  neck  and  fore- 
head— her  brief  sweet  hour  of  joy  was  over.  Sherbrand 
had  gone  away  again. 

"  Cela  ira-t-il,  monsieur?  Je  suis  prU  a  faire  une  nouvelle 
demonstration  si  vous  n'etes  pas  satisfait." 

His  clear,  strong  voice  speaking  in  laborious  public  school 
French  gave  her  a  delicious  shock  of  pleasure.  He  was 
addressing  the  stout,  bearded  Frenchman  who,  accom- 
panied by  the  thinner  man  who  had  timed  Sherbrand  by  the 
stop-watch,  now  walked  across  the  turf  to  shake  the  avia- 
tor's hand.  As  Sherbrand  spoke,  he  drew  a  white  handker- 
chief from  the  sleeve  of  his  gabardine  and  wiped  from  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  some  little  blobs  of  foam,  slightly 
bloodstained.  The  stout,  friendly  Frenchman  glanced  at 
him,  and  uttered  an  exclamation.  Sherbrand  shook  his 
head  in  vigorous  protest  and  laughed,  repeating  his  offer  to 
demonstrate  again.  Upon  which  the  bearded  man,  who  had 
also  a  moustache  with  thick,  stiff  waxed  ends,  and  wore  a 
large  checked-pattern  summer  suit  with  a  white  drill  waist- 
coat, a  low  collar  and  a  necktie  with  flowing  ends,  and  was 
topped  with  a  high-crowned  straw  hat  that  suggested 
Trouville  in  mid-season,  negatived  the  proposal  with  a 
vivacious  gesture,  pouring  forth  a  stream  of  words: 

"Au  co7itraire,  Monsieur,  je  suis  convaingu  que  vous  avez 
une  idee  superbe.  Nous  vous  avons  observe  avec  la  lunette 
Zeiss,  pendant  votre  vol,  et  nous  avons  constate  le  temps  trhs 
soigneusement:  vous  avez  maintenu  le  bruit  et  la  stabilite 
pendant  cinq  minutes  de  plus  que  les  vingt-cinq  minutes  stipu- 


208  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

lies.  Permettez  moi  comme  une  simple  formalite  de  voir  votre 
altimetre?" 

"  By  all  means ! "     Sherbrand  returned. 

They  went  back  to  the  aeroplane  together,  and  Sherbrand 
reached  over  and  unhooked  the  altimeter  from  a  board  in 
the  pilot's  cockpit,  and  the  bearded  man  examined  it,  and 
then  cordially  shook  hands. 

"Within  two  days,  at  latest.  Possibly  sooner!"  Patrine 
heard  the  straw-hatted,  bearded  gentleman  say  in  English, 
pronounced  with  a  strong  French  accent.  "Believe  me," 
he  added,  "I  shall  represent  most  strongly  the  usefulness  of 
your  invention  to  the  Chief  of  the  Etat  de  1' Aviation.  Au 
revoir,  Monsieur,  et  encore  mes  felicitations!'' 

Then  he  went  away  with  the  small  dark  man  who  had 
used  the  stop-watch,  and  who  carried  the  Zeiss  binoculars 
slung  in  their  case. 

During  this  business  interview  Patrine  had  felt  Bawne 
panting  and  wriggling  close  beside  her,  like  an  excited,  but 
well-mannered  fox-terrier  waiting  to  be  whistled  for.  But 
Sherbrand,  though  he  glanced  at  the  boy  smilingly,  had 
turned  aside  to  engage  in  conversation  with  Saxham,  and 
the  Chief  Scout,  whom  Sherbrand  saluted  in  orthodox 
Scout  fashion,  flushing  red  under  the  clear  sunburn  that 
darkened  his  fair  skin. 

"He's  one  of  Us!"  Bawne  whispered  to  Patrine,  his  own 
young  face  aHght  with  pleasure.  "He  was  Scoutmaster  of 
a  troop  in  the  North,  he  told  me,  and  I  know  he  must  have 
been  a  splendid  one.  He's  the  kind  of  chap  who'd  be 
prepared  for  anything.  Don't  you  think  he  looks  like 
that?" 

Patrine  did  not  answer.  She  was  feeling  "cheap,"  as 
Lady  Beauvayse  would  have  expressed  it.  She  had  put  the 
man  out  of  her  thoughts  because  she  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  Fanshaw's  instructor  could  not  be  a  gentleman.  Now, 
as  she  watched  Sherbrand  in  conversation  with  the  elder 
man,  his  manner  of  quiet,  well-bred  deference,  mingled  with 


The  God  from  the  Machine  209 

a  pleasant  courtesy,  showed  her  beyond  all  doubt  that  his 
place  was  above  the  salt. 

He  had  looked  towards  her,  when  he  had  smiled  at  Bawne, 
and  his  glance  had  swept  over  her  without  recognition.    She 

would  have  known  him  anywhere,  while  he ■!     She  had 

forgotten  her  preposterously-coloured  hair. 

How  sweet  the  breeze  was,  bringing  from  the  west  the 
smell  of  strawberry-fields  and  red  and  white  clover.  Yet 
she  had  not  noticed  it  until  now.  Her  mood  had  changed. 
She  had  put  away  the  thing  she  most  hated  to  remember. 
She  felt  almost  like  the  Patrine  of  two  days  ago. 

"MissSaxham!" 

It  was  von  Herrnung's  voice  speaking  behind  her,  and 
with  a  shock  of  loathing  horror  she  remembered  all.  She 
turned  to  see  his  tall  figure  approaching.  The  first  im- 
pression was  that  he  was  ill ;  the  next,  that  he  was  furiously 
angry.  His  florid  complexion  had  bleached  to  an  ugly, 
greenish  pallor,  even  the  blue  of  his  eyes  had  faded  to  a 
curious  lilac  hue.  He  carried  in  his  gloved  left  hand,  and 
with  evident  care,  a  flat  strapped  wallet  of  brown  leather, 
fastened  with  two  Bramah  locks  and  a  lock-strap.  He  said 
to  Patrine  in  a  jarring  voice  of  resentment  and  impatience: 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you.  Could  one  not  leave  you 
for  a  minute  but  you  must  go  off  by  yourself?  Sapperlot  ! 
Whom  has  one  here?     Where  did  you  pick  up  the  boy ? " 

Her  heart  swelled  as  Bawne  looked  up  at  her  in  astonish- 
ment, then  transferred  his  stare  to  von  Hermung,  puckering 
his  brows  in  disapproval  of  the  rude,  strange  man.  She 
answered  as  calmly  as  was  possible: 

"This  is  my  cou.sin,  Bawne  Saxham,  Count  von  Herr- 
nung. " 

"Why  did  you  leave  me?"  von  Herrnung  grumbled  as 
Bawne  stiffly  saluted,  and  she  told  him: 

"Because  I  saw  3^ou  occupied  in  conversation  with  your 

German  friends. " 

"  Women  are  incomprehensible  creatures !  .  .  .     How  do 
14 


210  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

you  know  that  they  were  German  ?  At  any  rate,  whether 
they  were  or  not,  they  have  gone  away  now!  You  find 
me  annoyed.  It  is  because  they  are — what  shall  I  call  it  ? — 
perhaps  a  little  exigent.  Now  I  will  have  a  smoke.  I 
suppose  you  do  not  mind?" 

He  had  not  freed  his  hand  from  the  brown  leather  satchel 
to  remove  his  hat  when  he  had  mopped  his  perspiring  fore- 
head, with  a  big  cambric  handkerchief  scented  with  the  tres 
persistant  perfiime  that  always  clung  about  his  clothes. 
Nor  did  he  relinquish  it  to  help  himself  to  a  cigar,  but 
opened  the  gold  case  containing  the  weeds  with  the  hand 
that  drew  it  from  his  pocket,  extracted  a  cigar  with  his  teeth, 
and  returned  the  case  to  his  pocket;  then  produced  a  match- 
box, opened  it  in  the  same  way,  picked  out  a  match,  shut  the 
box,  and  struck  the  match  upon  it,  saying  to  Bawne,  as  he 
blew  out  the  first  mouthful  of  smoke:  "What  do  you  think 
of  that,  my  fine  fellow?  Should  I  not  make  a  famous  one- 
handed  man?"  But  Bawne's  suffrages  remained  unwon, 
although  the  dexterity  of  the  thing  had  secretly  pleased  him. 
He  remained  doggedly  silent,  scowling  with  his  reddish- 
fair  brows,  thrusting  out  his  chin. 

"Should  I  not?  Tell  me!"  von  Hermung  persisted. 
"  Or  is  it  that  British  boys  are  cowards  and  afraid  to  answer 
when  they  are  spoken  to?" 

"I  am  not  afraid — of  an3^thing  or  anybody!" 

Bawne  reddened  and  looked  the  taunting  big  man 
between  the  eyes,  squarely.  The  look  added — And  least  of 
all  of  anybody  like  you  !     He  went  on: 

"But  I  think  it  takes  more  than — that  kind  of  being 
clever — to  make  a  famous  man. " 

" Nicht  so  schlimm!"  Von  Herrnung  nodded.  "But 
all  the  same  these  little  tricks  are  worth  knowing.  You 
m.ight  be  bound  with  ropes  to  a  post,  or  tree,  or  waggon 
by  the  enemy,  and  if  he  happened  to  have  left  your  matches 
on  you — and  you  could  get  one  hand  free — there  is  no  knot 
man  could  tie  that  I  could  not  wriggle  myself  out  of! — you 


The  God  from  the  Machine  211 

might  bum  the  rope  and  get  away!     I  did  that  once  when 
I  was  a  gunner-boy  of  seventeen  in  South  Africa " 

Von  Herrnung  stopped  short.  Bawne  asked  simply,  and 
with  the  same  straight  look  between  the  eyes: 

"  Did  you  fight  with  the  Boers  against  us  in  the  War? " 

Von  Herrnung  did  not  seem  to  have  heard.  He  had 
caught  the  drift  of  a  sentence  spoken  by  Sherbrand,  who  was 
answering  to  a  question  of  the  Chief  Scout. 

"Oh  yes !  I  live  here — have  quarters  over  Mrs.  Dunlett's 
restaurant — you  could  communicate  with  me  practically  at 
any  time.  We've  the  'phone  and  a  private  telegraph-office, 
and  the  wireless — under  the  usual  licence  from  the  Post- 
master-General." 

He  pointed  towards  the  well-known  tall  posts  with  the 
short  cross-pieces,  china  insulators  and  lines  of  thick  wire, 
standing  beside  the  telegraph-cabin,  over  the  roof  of  which 
straddled  the  wireless  installation's  tall,  latticed  steel  mast. 

"We  find  it  useful  for  business  as  well  as  instructional 
purposes,"  he  went  on.  "  Macrombie — the  man  in  charge 
• — is  a  one-time  Royal  Navy  Petty  Officer  Telegraphist  and 
a  first-class  operator."  Sherbrand's  mouth  twisted  a  little 
at  the  corners  as  he  added:  "About  twenty-four  days  out  of 
thirty,  let  us  say!" 

The  quick  rejoinder  came: 

"Then  he's  D.  O.  D.  two  working  days  in  the  month,  not 
counting  Sundays.  I've  met  plenty  of  Macrombies  in  my 
time.  This  doesn't  happen  to  be  the  monthly  pay-day,  by 
any  chance,  or  one  of  the  other  close  days  in  its  neighbour- 
hood?" 

"No,  no!  He's  as  right  as  rain  and  as  sober  as  a  seal, " 
said  Sherbrand.  "And — this  tall  fellow  with  red  hair  must 
be  the  man  who  has  written  to  me  upon  business.  I  shall 
have  to  go  to  him.  " 

They  exchanged  a  left-handed  grip,  mutually  smiling. 

"Good  old  habits  stick,"  said  the  Chief,  and  Sherbrand 
answered: 


212  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"  Fortunately,  they  do.  Let  me  say  again  how  much  and 
how  gratefully  I  have  to  thank  you  for  the  teaching  that  has 
helped  me  to  find  myself ! "  His  clear  light  glance  reverted 
to  Saxham.  "The  Doctor  too,  for  giving  me  this  chance  of 
meeting  you.  Please  tell  him  the  story  if  you  think  it  would 
interest  him.  I  hope  with  all  my  heart,  sir,  that  you  will 
soon  come  here  again!" 

"I  had  already  taken  the  permission  for  granted,"  the 
Chief  said,  as  vSherbrand  saluted  and  went  forward  to  meet 
"the  fellow  with  red  hair. "  "There  is  big  business  in  that 
gyroscopic  stabiliser  of  his,"  he  added  to  Saxham,  "and 
our  friends  at  the  French  War  Ministry  have  tumbled  to  it 
as  one  might  naturally  expect.  So  much  the  worse  for  our 
bungling  bigwigs  at  Whitehall,  who've  let  a  good  thing  slip, 
for  the  millionth  time,  out  of  their  claws.  But  taking 
for  granted  the  value  of  the  patent,  and  recognising  the 
likelihood  of  the  French  bid  stimulating  Teutonic  com- 
petition  " 

The  gentle,  modulated  voice  broke  off.  Von  Herrnung 
had  stepped  out  upon  the  green  and  was  striding  towards  the 
lightly-moving,  less  stiffly-carried  figure  of  Sherbrand,  the 
approximation  of  the  two  somehow  suggesting  a  salute  of 
gladiators  previous  to  the  fight.  Now  the  big,  grey-clad 
German  was  arrested  in  the  middle  of  his  stride  by  the 
sudden  kling-a-ling  of  a  motor-gong,  a  sharp  crystal  vibra- 
tion that  stiffened  him  to  attention,  and  pricked  his  ears  for 
a  repetition  of  the  sound. 

It  did  not  immediately  come.  He  raised  the  left  hand 
that  held  the  leather  satchel,  and  swung  it  from  front  to 
rear,  so  that  it  was  for  a  moment  clear  of  the  outline  of  his 
body,  as  who  should  signal :  "  /  have  it  safe  I ' '  Quick,  watch- 
ful eyes  noted  this.  Took  in  also  the  ornate  bulk  of  the  dark 
blue  F.I.A.T.  touring-car,  as  with  the  characteristic,  noise- 
less smoothness  of  its  make,  it  glided  between  the  ranks 
of  parked  and  waiting  automobiles,  and  stopped  in  the  open, 
perhaps  some  forty  yards  away. 


The  God  from  the  Machine  213 

A  fat  yellow  hand,  with  a  twinkling  solitaire  upon  it, 
waved.  A  brown  hand,  with  a  massive  gold  curb-chain 
watch-bracelet  on  the  wrist  of  it,  beckoned  imperiously. 
Something  had  been  forgotten,  something  was  still  to  say. 
Von  Herrnung  wheeled,  and  went  back  in  his  traces  as 
obediently  as  the  pointer  that  has  been  called  to  heel.  He 
did  not  uncover,  perhaps  he  had  been  told  not  to.  He 
saluted,  and  stood  stiffly,  listening  to  a  harsh  German  voice 
that  yapped  at  him.  All  his  arrogance  and  swagger  seemed 
to  have  been  juggled  out  of  him  by  the  gestures  of  the  brown 
hand  with  the  flashing  wrist-bracelet,  emerging  from  the 
white  cuff  with  jewelled  sleeve-links  and  the  snowy  sleeve 
with  its  broad  bands  of  glittering  golden  braid. 

The  slight  sound  pulled  Saxham's  head  round.  He  had 
not  been  looking  at  the  occupants  of  the  blue  F.I.A.T. 
His  eyes  were  intent  on  the  tall  white  figure  of  the  woman 
standing  beside  his  boy.  Her  black  lace  sunshade  was 
closed.  She  held  the  tall-sticked  thing  at  arm's-length,  lean- 
ing upon  it,  and  the  westering  light  smote  a  myriad  of  multi- 
coloured sparkles  out  of  the  tinsel  spangles  of  the  hat  with 
the  single  black  cock's  pliime.  The  queer  headgear  crown- 
ing her  barbaric  hair,  and  her  full  white  oval  face  with  its 
wide,  low,  arched  black  brows  and  long  eyes,  made  her 
seem  strange,  alluring,  as  some  tall-stemmed,  exotic  flower, 
sprung  at  the  incantation  of  an  Oriental  conjuror,  from  a 
green  stretch  of  English  turf. 

In  the  same  instant  von  Herrnung  touched  his  hat, 
stepped  back  from  the  blue  car,  wheeled  and  walked  away 
toward  the  waiting  figure  of  Sherbrand,  the  sallow  man  in 
the  Homburg  hat  gave  an  order,  the  chauffeur  touched  the 
electric  starter,  and  the  F.I.A.T.  turned  and  smoothly 
bowled  away.  But  in  the  instant  of  its  turning,  the  bearded 
man  in  the  white  naval  uniform  rose  in  his  place,  and 
obtruding  half  his  short,  bulky  body  across  the  lean  person 
of  his  sallow  neighbour,  scrutinised  the  face  and  figure  of 


214  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Patrine  Saxham  with  a  cool,  appraising  deliberateness  that 
tortured  the  wincing  flesh  it  enveloped  like  the  cut  of  a 
carriage- whip. 

They  were  full,  bright,  and  rather  handsome  grey-blue 
eyes  shadowed  by  the  white  cap-peak,  and  they  had  the 
indefinable  expression  of  authority  and  power.  Their  glance 
said — and  the  face  with  the  perfectly-trimmed  beard  and 
the  upturned  moustache  wore  a  curious  smile  that  bore  out 
the  glance's  meaning: 

''So!  That's  the  woman!"  And  a  surge  of  scalding 
shame  and  bitter  resentment  rose  in  the  heart  of  Patrine 
Saxham  and  filled  it  to  the  brim. 

She  could  not  have  explained  why  she  felt  certain  that  her 
shameful  secret  was  known  to  the  man  with  the  powerful 
eyes,  the  cast  of  whose  face  with  its  pointed  beard  faintly 
reminded  one  of  the  King  and  the  Tsar. 

Patrine  had  always  abominated  cheap  sentiment.  She 
had  once  laughed  until  she  cried  at  a  revival  of  an  old  four- 
decker  drama,  whose  hero,  waking  to  the  knowledge  of  a 
committed,  irrevocable  deed  cried  in  throaty,  stagy  tones 
of  anguish  upon  God  to  put  back  the  dreadful  clock  of  Time 
and  give  him  yesterday. 

Now  she  perceived  the  deep,  vital  interest  of  the  common- 
place human  story.  If  asking  Him  on  whom  that  other 
sinner  cried  would  wipe  from  Time's  register  a  span  of  hours 
between  twelve  p.  m.  and  three  o'clock  in  the  morning — 
blot  one  deed  from  the  Roll  of  things  that  done,  are 
beyond  Humanity's  undoing — Patrine  told  herself  that  it 
would  be  worth  while  to  wear  sackcloth,  live  on  boiled 
field-peas,  drink  brook-water,  and  pray — until  her  knees 
were  worn  to  the  bone. 

She  caught  Saxham's  piercing  glance  across  the  interven- 
ing strip  of  greensward.  He  turned  away  his  eyes,  and  a 
shudder  went  through  her  frame.  Had  he  suspected — 
could  anyone  have  found  out  and  told  him?  The  Doctor's 
head  was  bent  now  as  the   General  talked  to  him.     It 


The  God  from  the  Machine  215 

seemed  to  her  that  a  muscle  in  his  lean  cheek  twitched,  a 
characteristic  sign  with  him  of  excitement,  or  emotion.  She 
wondered  what  the  General  had  said  to  Uncle  Owen  to 
make  him  look  like  that. 

As  a  fact,  the  quiet  voice  was  sa^'ing  in  Saxham's  ear: 
"And  prepare  against  a  surprise.  Doctor — for  though 
your  nerves  are  tough  as  aluminium  bronze,  a  few 
million  gallons  of  water  have  rolled  under  the  Thames 
bridges  since  you  and  I  held  Council  of  War.  ...  As  I 
mentioned  before,  the  interest  taken  by  the  French  Govern- 
ment in  Sherbrand's  gyroscopic  hoverer  may  well  have 
stimulated  the  interest  of  our  Teuton  neighbours.  But  it 
doesn't  explain  the  presence  on  Fanshaw's  Flying  Ground 
of  Lieutenant-General  Count  Helmuth  von  Moltke,  Chief 
of  the  German  Great  General  Staff,  and — Grand  Admiral 
Prince  Henry  of  Prussia,  brother  of  the  Kaiser — in  a  F.I. 
A.T.  touring-car!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


A  SECRET  MISSION 


"  Can  it  be  possible "     Saxham  checked  himself .    "You 

see  how  rusty  I  am  getting,  General.  You  refer  to  that 
machine  that  turned  out  from  where  cars  are  parked  just 
now.  The  German  fellow  went  up  to  it.  .  .  .  It  had  a 
groom  beside  the  chauffeur  and  three  other  men  inside  it. 
.  .  .  While  I  was  looking — elsewhere — it  must  have 
moved  away!" 

"It  has  only  turned  the  corner  of  the  cafe-restaurant," 
the  Chief  said  in  his  quiet  tones.  He  glanced  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  squat  block  of  gaily  painted  wooden  buildings 
devoted  to  the  inner  needs  of  Fanshaw's  clients.  "The  awn- 
ing hides  it,  but  I  can  see  a  bit  of  it  still.  Until  it  moves, 
I  can  go  on  talking.  Frankly,  I  am  in  the  position  of  the 
High  Church  curate  who  went  out  wild-pig  shooting  in  the 
territories  of  the  Limpopo  with  a  single-bore  hammer-gun  of 
grandpapa's  pattern — and  got  his  choice  of  pot-shots 
between  a  lion  and  a  rhino.  Prinz  Heinrich  is  my  royal  lion 
and  von  Herrnung, — who  counted  for  little  more  than  a 
bush-pig — has  suddenly  swelled  into  a  rhinoceros.  " 

He  pulled  the  grizzled  moustache  thoughtfully,  keeping 
his  eyes  glued  on  the  back  of  the  big  blue  car. 

"If  I  could  get  hold  of  Sherbrandl — but  the  chance  is 
dead  for  the  rhino  and  lion  winding  me.  Old  von  Moltke 
with  the  big  wart  on  his  ginger-coloured  face,  and  the 
charming  manner  that  makes  you  forget  that  you  don't  like 
him! — would  certainly  recognise  me — and  the  nautical 
Hohenzollern  and  I  have  met  once  or  twice  before.  I  must 
lay  low  like  Brer  Rabbit,  and  take  a  single-handed  chance. 
No,  no,  Doctor,  you  have  your  patients  to  look  after!     I 

216 


A  Secret  Mission  217 

am  not  going  to  drag  you  into  this.     But  if  I'd  got  a  couple 

of  my  Boy  Scouts  handy "    He  broke  off,  encountering 

Bawne's  bright  eyes.  "By  George,  Doctor!  I'm  going  to 
chance  it !  I'm  going  to  give  your  youngster  an  opportunity 
to  prove  his  Saxham  blood!" 

The  Master-hand  gave  the  Scout's  Sign,  and  Bawne  shot 
across  like  a  brownish  streak  of  swiftness.  He  drew  himself 
up,  gave  the  Full  Salute,  and  stood  waiting,  his  rigid 
attitude  in  sharp  contrast  with  his  dancing,  expectant  eyes. 
The  Doctor  looked  at  his  watch  and  moved  away  silently. 
The  Chief  said  in  a  clear  undertone : 

"You  see  that  tall,  red-haired  man  in  grey  clothes  over 
there  with  Mr.  Sherbrand  ?  Don't  look  at  him  openly,  or  he 
will  know  we  are  talking  about  him,  but  take  a  sidelong 
gliff,  and  say. " 

"I  see  him,  sir." 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  him?  Stand  easy  and  an- 
swer carefully." 

The  hand  came  down  from  the  hat-brim.     The  boy  said: 

"I've  heard  him  talk,  sir,  and  I  think  he  is  German. 
I'm  learning  that  and  French  at  Charterhouse." 

"He  is  a  German.  Do  you  speak  enough  of  the  lan- 
guage to  understand  him,  suppose  he  were  talking  to  one  of 
his  countrymen?" 

"/c/f — kann — lesen,  aber  Ich  kann  es — ?iicht  sprechen." 
The  answer  came  slowly.  "And  if  they  weren't  using  crack- 
jaw  words,  sir,  or  talking  very  quick,  I  might  manage — I 
could  make  out  a  lot  of  what  they  said." 

"Very  well,  keep  your  man  under  close  observation  and — 
you  see  that  brown  satchel  he  has  in  his  hand?" 

"I've  seen  it  close,  sir.  A  fiat  brown  leather  despatch 
case  thing — with  a  criss-cross  pattern  on  the  leather,  and 
two  locks,  and  another  lock  on  the  strap  that  goes  round. 
He  hadn't  it  with  him  when  first  I  saw  him  talking  to — a 
lady.  Then  a  man — a  servant — came  and  called  him  away 
to  speak  to  some  gentlemen  in  a  big  blue  motor-car.     One  of 


2i8  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

them — fat  and  old  and  bald — with  a  wart  on  his  cheek,  who 
wore  a  white  topper,  and  yellowy  clothes,  and  a  red  necktie, 
and  looked  rather  like  a — like  an  Inspector  of  Sunday 
Schools  in  shooting-clothes — passed  him  the  leather  case. 
That's  how  I  know  he  didn't  bring  it,  sir.  Oh!  and  the 
yellow  car  he  drives  isn't  British.  She's  got  an  oval 
International  plate  with  the  German  'D '  in  black  on  a  white 
ground. " 

"I  am  glad  my  Scout  knows  how  to  use  his  eyes!" 

The  Chief's  own  eyes  were  crinkled  with  merriment. 
That  Moltke,  the  Chief  of  the  German  Great  General  staff, 
bosom  friend  of  the  All  Highest,  should  resemble  a  stout 
Inspector  of  Sunday  Schools  in  the  estimation  of  a  small 
British  boy,  was  lovely  in  the  extreme. 

"Well,  I  want  to  know  what  the  big  German  officer — he  is 
an  officer! — does  with  that  leather  satchel  he's  carrying  so 
carefully.  Where  he  goes  with  it,  whom  he  talks  to,  and 
what  he  says  to  them.  Find  out  whether  it  is  light  or 
heavy,  if  it  is  what  I  believe  it  to  be,  you  might  be  rendering 
good  service  to  your  country  in  destroying  it.  But  you'll  be 
doing  all  I  want  or  expect,  if  you  stick  to  the  man  who 
carries  it!" 

"I'll  do  that,  sir,  on  my  Honour!" 

"Good!  Make  your  little  German  serve  you.  I  may 
have  to  leave  here  upon  this  business,  but  I'll  be  back 
within,  at  least— half  an  hour.  If  he  goes  before  I  get 
back,  find  out  where  he  is  going.  If  you  can't  find  out, 
follow  him.  On  foot  if  he  walks,  in  a  taxi  if  he  doesn't. 
Here  are  six  separate  shillings — in  that  case  you'll  want 
money  for  fares.  Remember,  if  things  take  a  puzzling  turn 
and  you  find  yourself  in  a  tight  place,  whisper  a  quiet  word 
to  Sherbrand,  though  I'd  prefer  you  to  carry  through  on 
your  own!  Report  to  me,  in  case  he  goes  before  I  get  back 
here— at  Headquarters,  Victoria  Street.  Have  you  got  all 
this  tucked  away  safe  in  your  head?" 

"Yes,  sir." 


A  Secret  Mission  219 

"Then  quit  yourself  like  a  man.  My  signal  to  you  that  I 
have  left  will  be  a  dog's  yelping.  Ah!"  The  keen  bright 
eyes,  glued  on  the  distant  back  of  the  blue  car,  had  seen  the 
rear  wheels  moving.  Before  the  F.I.A.T,  glided  smoothly 
out  of  eyeshot  the  Chief  had  hurried  away. 

In  the  opposite  direction  to  the  archway  of  exit,  the  slight, 
active  figure  in  the  perfectly-cut  blue  serge  morning  clothes 
and  pot  hat  of  Bond  Street  block,  was  rapidly  walking. 
Bawne  doubted  his  eyes  for  a  moment  before  he  remembered 
that  the  Collingwood  Avenue  ran  along  that  side  of  the 
Flying  Ground  fence.  There  was  a  smaller  gate  in  charge  of 
a  commissionaire,  in  the  fence,  about  a  hundred  yards  along 
it.  Taxi-cabs  were  standing  outside  the  gate.  Any  person 
on  foot  or  awheel,  leaving  the  Fl5dng  Ground,  must  pass  the 
gate  and  the  taxi-stand.  You  could  see  through  the  chinks 
in  the  fence  when  they  passed,  nip  out  when  they  were  well 
by,  and  follow  in  a  green-flagged  chuffer.  Bawne  had 
settled  this  to  his  satisfaction  before  a  wrench  at  the  rein 
of  duty  pulled  his  head  round  to  the  business  on  hand. 

"  I'm  not  spying  on  Mr.  Sherbrand, "  the  boy  told  himself, 
gritting  his  small  square  teeth  doggedly.  "I've  got  to  listen, 
so  as  to  understand  the  German's  game.  And  I'm  going  to. 
This  is  how  I'm  going  to!" 

He  began  to  turn  hand-springs  after  the  fashion  of  the 
London  street  Arab,  thus  lessening  the  distance  between 
himself  and  the  talking  men.  They  glanced  at  him,  and 
Sherbrand  grinned,  but  they  looked  back  again  directly  at 
each  other.  Then  Bawne  threw  himself  down  and  panted, 
rolled  over  and  lay,  still  panting.  Now  he  was  near  enough 
to  hear  what  passed  between  the  two. 

Sherbrand  said : 

"No,  I  was  not  particularly  solid  in  my  conviction  that 
the  aerial  stabiliser  would  take  the  fancy  of  the  Chiefs 
of  the  Service  Aeronautique.  An  accident  prevented  me 
from  witnessing  the  final  test,  and  I  got  what  the  i\mericans 
call  cold  feet  and  judged  it  no  use  staying  in  France  longer. 


220  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

So  I  flew  back  here,  starting  early  by  daylight  the  next 
morning,  with  Davis,  my  mechanic,  and  found  a  cable  wait- 
ing at  my  office  to  say  the  working  of  the  invention  had  been 
observed  with  interest  by  the  Chiefs  of  the  S.  Ae.  F.,  and 
that  if  I  could  carry  out  a  satisfactory  time-trial  at  my  head- 
quarters in  the  presence  of  the  French  Consul,  the  authori- 
ties at  the  Ministry  of  War  would  be  willing  to  buy  my 
patents  for  France.  As  it  happened,  I  was  suffering  from  a 
slight  obstruction  in  the  nasal  passages  that  spoiled  my 
climbing.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  go  into  Hospital. 
That  is  why  I  could  not  give  M.  Jourdain  an  earlier  date  for 
the  hovering-test  you  have  just  seen  carried  out." 

Von  Herrnung  demanded: 

"But  did  you  not  receive  a  letter  containing  a  business 
proposal?  A  communication  from  Rathenau,  Wolif  and 
Brothers,  Aeromotor  Engineers  of  Paris,  200,  Rue  Gagn- 
ette?  I  happen  to  know  that  it  was  posted,  and  the  date 
being  that  of  the  Paris  trial,  Herren  Rathenau  and  Wolff 
certainly  possess  the  prior  claim!" 

"Their  communication  reached  me  in  Hospital,  three 
days  later  than  the  French  War  Office  cable,"  Sherbrand 
answered.  "It  had  been  forwarded  from  the  makeshift 
hangar  I  rented  at  Drancy — a  mistake  in  the  address  being 
the  reason  of  the  delay!" 

"That  fellow  Lindemann  is  a  Dummer  Teufel,"  said  von 
Herrnung,  shrugging. 

"  My  German  landlord.  .  .  .  Why — do  you  know  him? " 
asked  Sherbrand  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"No,  certainly.  But  you — you  said  the  fellow's  name 
was  Lindemann.  Not  so?  No? — then  I  am  mistaken," 
said  von  Herrnung  with  another  shrug.  He  hurried  on  as 
though  to  cover  a  mistake  with  a  spate  of  sentences : 

"Of  course,  with  Rathenau  and  Wolff  I  have  nothing  to 
do.  Save  as  an  old  customer,  of  whom  they  have  asked  a 
favour — you  understand?  Indeed  I — you  will  pardon  me! 
— do  not  your  hoverer  regard  as  an  original  invention.     In 


A  Secret  Mission  221 

1912  our  German  Ministry  of  Marine  completed  a  gun-boat 
fitted  with  a  gyroscopic  stabiliser  to  prevent  rolling — you 
understand — in  stormy  weather.  The  device  was  hellishly 
effective." 

"So  effective,"  rejoined  Sherbrand,  without  the  quiver  of 
a  facial  muscle,  though  there  was  laughter  in  his  eyes,  "that 
it  broke  up  the  ship." 

"Es  mag  ivohl  sei7i!"  returned  von  Herrnung,  covering 
discomfiture,  if  he  felt  it,  with  his  imperturbable  shrug  and 
hard  blue  stare. 

Sherbrand  went  on,  straightening  his  wide  shoulders  and 
clasping  his  hands  loosely  at  his  back  as  he  talked : 

"  I  don't  claim  that  my  patent  is  an  absolutely  new  inven- 
tion. Far  from  it.  But  it  is  a  new  arrangement  of  some 
old  ideas,  and  limited  though  its  use  may  be — it  works. 
You  have  seen  it  working.  You  agree  that  it  justifies  its 
name? "  He  waited  for  the  assent,  and  went  on:  "  Possibly 
if  I  had  described  it  as  an  aerial  drag-anchor,  I  should  have 
explained  its  uses  more  clearly.  It  is  no  good  at  all  when 
your  machine  isn't  flying  level — of  course  you  understand 
that  ?  If  you  were  ass  enough  to  try  to  dive  without  cutting 
out  the  power  that  drives  the  horizontal  screws  you  would 
drop  to  the  ground  like  a  plummet  and  break  into  a  million 
of  little  bits — or  dig  a  hole  in  the  earth  big  enough  for  a  Tube 
Station.  But — keeping  an  even  line  of  flight — when  you 
switch  it  on  it  pulls  against  the  tractor  just  sufficiently  to 
give  you — not  immovability — but  poise.  Sufficient  to  take 
a  photograph  or  drop  an  explosive  with  a  good  deal  of 
accuracy. " 

The  small  boy  lying  outstretched  on  the  warm  turf  near 
them,  thought  dolefully: 

"Dummer  Teufel  meant  'stupid  devil'  in  German.  But 
this  talk  is  dreadfully  business,  I  can't  stow  away  much. 
Man  alive!  I  wish  Roddy  Wrynche  or  some  other  fellow 
with  a  top-hole  memory  had  got  this  job  to  tackle.  And 
yet  the  Chief  trusted  it  to  me!" 


222  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

All  this,  while  Sherbrand  was  explaining. 

"  M.  Jourdain  declared  himself  completely  satisfied.  His 
observer  said  that  I  maintained  poise  and  stability  for  five 
minutes  longer  than  the  stipulated  twenty-five.  He  looked 
at  the  altimeter  and  said  I  should  receive  a  definite  answer 
within  a  couple  of  days.  .  .  .  Unlucky  brute!  Someone 
must  have  run  over  him!" 

The  shrill  yelp  of  a  hurt  dog  had  evoked  Sherbrand's 
exclamation.  The  sufferer's  plaint  came  from  the  Colling- 
wood  Avenue,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence.  Thrice  the 
excruciating  soimd  ripped  the  ears,  then  died  out  in  a 
sobbing  whimper.  .  .  .  That  was  for  me!  Bawne  told 
himself,  as  von  Herrnung  went  on : 

"Still,  you  are  not  pledged.  There  is  no  definite  under- 
standing. In  the  interests  of  the  wealthy  firm  I  am  asked 
to  represent — solely  as  a  matter  of  courtesy,  because  they 
have  been  immensely  civil  to  me  in  business, — you  would 
not  refuse  me  a  test?" 

Sherbrand  said,  drawing  off  his  left  glove  and  showing 
blood  oozing  from  under  bluish -looking  finger-nails: 

"I  found  it  uncommonly  parky  to-day  at  10,000  feet. 
There  was  a  nor'-east  breeze,  a  regular  piercer.  Found 
myself  spitting  blood  rather  badly,  and  to  be  candid,  I  was 
uncommonly  grateful  that  the  French  Consul  declined  my 
offer,  in  case  he  was  not  satisfied,  to  do  the  thing  again. 
The  fact  is,  the  operation,  slight  as  it  was,  has  weakened  me 
a  little.  I  wouldn't  care  to  repeat  the  performance  without 
a  good  night's  rest  to  buck  me  up." 

Von  Herrnung  shrugged  and  agreed: 

"  That  it  is  cold  at  10,000  I  can  credit  easily.  I  have  had 
the  oil  in  my  own  gauges  frozen  at  7,000  in  midsummer. 
Da  ist  nicht  zu  strassen.  Haemorrhage  and  dizziness  are 
the  chief  enemies  of  the  aviator.  One's  stomach  be- 
trays one  also,  the  cursed  beast! — after  a  good  hearty 
meal!" 

"I  don't  give  mine  the  chance!"     Sherbrand  returned. 


A  Secret  Mission  223 

"but  stave  off  the  pangs  of  appetite  with  milk-tablets  and 
meat-lozenges.  Do  all  my  flying  on  these  and  chocolate. 
Keep  a  little  store  of  the  things  and  a  Thermos  of  hot 
coffee,  in  a  cache  I've  made  for  them,  under  the  map-desk  on 
the  left  of  the  instrument-frame,  facing  the  pilot's  seat. 
If  you  will  come  over  to  the  Bird  I'll  show  you,  and  explain 
the  working  of  the  gvroscopic  hoverer."  He  added,  look- 
ing squarely  at  von  Herrnung:  "Of  course  the  cutting  of  the 
double  screw  is  the  chief  thing  about  the  invention.  I've 
registered  every  way  I  know  and  got  a  trade-mark.  They 
tell  me  at  the  Patent  Office  that  my  international  rights 
are  secure  I" 

"They  should  be,  if  you  have  those  precautions  taken. 
It  does  not  do  to  trust,"  said  von  Herrnung,  "too  much! 
The  monkey  proverb  is  law  for  most  men."  He  shrugged. 
"It  comes,  by  the  way,  from  Namaland  in  German 
South-Wcst  Africa.  'Nuts  in  your  pouch  are  nuts  in 
mine ! 

The  freemasonry  of  their  calling  had  established  a  degree 
of  friendliness  between  them.  They  were  laughing  over  the 
monkey's  philosophy  as  they  went  over  together  to  the  Bird. 
The  small  boy  who  had  been  idly  sprawling  on  the  hot  turf 
near  them,  with  his  tilted  hat  shielding  his  face  from  the 
westering  sun-rays,  got  up  and  trotted  after  them  like  a 
collie  pup." 

"Coming  too,  young  man?"  Sherbrand  said,  glancing 
back  and  smiling.  The  boy  nodded  in  answer,  and  thence- 
forward kept  close  at  the  heels  of  the  men,  his  ears  indus- 
triously drinking  in  their  conversation,  while  his  eyes  were 
glued  on  the  brown  leather  satchel  depending  from  the 
German's  gloved  left  hand.  Both  men,  now  leaning  over 
the  side  of  the  pilot's  cockpit,  examined  the  gearing  of  the 
hoverer,  protected  by  a  transparent  casing  set  in  the  tough 
ash,  copper-riveted  planking  of  the  fuselage.  Then  with 
the  aid  of  sulky  Davis  they  tilted  the  Bird,  and  inspected 
the  pair  of  thin   circular   plates   of  toughened  steel  with 


224  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

flanged  edges  that,  revolving  at  high  velocity  in  different 
directions,  constituted  the  horizontal  screw. 

"Driven  from  the  engine,  as  you  see,  by  an  endless  chain- 
drive  arrangement.  By  manipulation  of  levers,  you  can 
throw  the  tractor  out  of  gear,  and  hover,  under  favourable 
circumstances  and  in  still  weather,  by  means  of  the  hori- 
zontal screw  alone.  But  as  a  rule  you  keep  the  tractor  work- 
ing, and  the  screw  acts  in  one  as  a  lifter  and  floating-anchor. 
That's  about  all  it  amounts  to! — I've  .said  I  don't  pretend 
to  hang  immovable  in  the  air  like  the  albatross  and  the 
condor,  not  to  mention  the  gull  and  sparrow-hawk  and 
dragon-fly !  While  I  hover  I  am  making  way — but  way  to 
an  inappreciable  amount.  One  of  these  days  we  shall  find 
out  the  big  Secret  of  Stability.  Until  then  we  must  rub 
along  as  best  we  can!" 

Von  Herrnung  returned : 

"I  am  hellishly  interested  in  your  invention.  It  now 
occurs  to  me  that  as  you  happen  to  know  my  flying  record" 
— he  shrugged  his  great  shoulders  and  smoothed  his  tight  red 
roll  of  moustache  with  a  well-manicured  finger-tip — "that 
it  is  possible  you  would  have  sufficient  confidence  to  allow 
me  to  test  your  gyroscopic  hoverer  myself?"  He  laughed 
again  pleasantly  as  he  finished:  "  Whatever  else  I  may  do,  I 
give  you  my  word  of  honour  I  shall  not  pile  up  yotir  machine. 
Will  you  consent?  It  may  lead — supposing  you  do  not 
close  with  the  French  offer — to  big  business — done  with  my 
friends!" 

Sherbrand  had  looked  doubtful,  only  for  an  instant. 
Before  the  twelve-year-old  eavesdropper  had  recovered 
from  the  shock  that  had  set  his  brain  spinning  and  his  heart 
thumping,  the  situation  had  been  accepted  by  the  owner  of 
the  Bird  of  War.  He  held  out  his  left  hand,  and  von  Herr- 
nung gripped  and  wrenched  it,  noting  with  inward  amuse- 
ment that  his  grip  had  brought  fresh  lines  of  blood  creeping 
about  the  edges  of  Sherbrand's  finger-nails. 

"You  shake  hands  with  the  left, "  he  commented,  smiling. 


A  Secret  Mission  225 

"Not  for  the  first  time  have  I  noticed  the  peculiarity  in 
Enghshmen  of  the  younger  breed." 

"It  is  a  custom, "  Sherbrand  answered,  "with — members 
of  an  organisation  to  which  I  had,  and  still  have,  the  honour 
to  belong." 

His  eyes,  in  speaking,  went  to  the  bright-haired  boy  in 
Scout's  uniform  standing  near  them,  but  von  Herrnung's 
glance  had  not  followed  his.  The  boy  was  staring  wistfully 
at  the  round-faced  clock  on  the  front  gable  of  the  cafe 
restaurant — ten  minutes  to  the  half-hour  and  no  sign  of  the 
Chief's  returning.  Bawne's  courage  began  to  ooze  away  at 
the  ends  of  his  fingers  and  toes. 

"Then, "  von  Herrnung  was  beginning  impatiently,  when 
a  sallow,  undersized  young  man,  whose  hollow  chest  and 
inky  paper  cuffs  advertised  his  clerical  employment,  came 
up,  touched  a  pen  sticking  out  from  behind  his  ear,  and 
said  as  Sherbrand  turned  to  him : 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  the  telegraph-cabin  is  locked  up 
proper,  and  Mr.  Macrombie  'as  carried  orf  the  key." 

' '  Out  of  sorts  to-day,  is  he  ? "  Sherbrand  asked  meaningly, 
and  the  telegraph-clerk  answered : 

"I've  never  seen  'im  so  bad  before — in  the  middle  of  the 
month!" 

As  Fate  would  have  it,  Macrombie,  ex-Petty  Officer 
Telegraphist  of  the  R.  N. — from  whose  sleeve  the  golden 
Crown  and  thunderbolt  had  been  reft  by  reason  of  his  anti- 
teetotal  habits,  had  received  a  visit  that  morning  from  a 
friend  who  had  repaid  a  debt.  Hence  the  licensed  operator 
of  Fanshaw's  experimental  and  educational  Wireless-station 
had  succumbed  to  an  attack  of  his  intermittent  complaint. 

Hear  Macrombie's  assistant  continuing  the  recital : 

"He's  left  the  aerial  connected  to  the  transmitter  and 

gone  out  for  lemon-squashes  four  times  since  one  o'clock 

grub.    '  That's  the  drink  for  men  who  have  souls  to  save,  ye 

little  fag-eater ! '  he  says  to  me; '  Salvation  for  soul  and  body, 


226  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

sucked  through  a  straw!  If  thae  deboshed  and  hopeless 
drunkards  at  the  Admiralty  could  be  induced  to  swear  off 
their  cursed  alcohol  and  take  to  it,  I  wad  no  longer  be 
deaved  to  the  point  of  steeping  my  tongue  in  profanity,  by 
the  kind  o'  eediots'  gibberish  that  is  yammering  at  my 
lugs!'" 

"He'd  been  raking  a  lot  of  Admiralty  strays  in?"  Sher- 
brand  queried.  Von  Herrnung,  who  had  been  grinding  his 
heel  into  the  turf  and  gnawing  his  lip  with  ill-concealed 
impatience,  turned  his  head  sharply,  and  listened  to  the 
colloquy  with  all  his  ears. 

"Not  so  much  X's  as  definites,  sir, "  responded  Macrom- 
bie's  assistant.  "He  was  upset  about  ten  minutes  before  he 
broke  out  by  getting  an  'Urgent'  without  a  Preparative 
Call.  Then  comes  'Important'  in  International  Code,  and 
'Administration'  and  'Emergency.'  Then  'War  Office,' 
and  'Documents,'  and  'Enforcement  of  the  Law.'  By 
that  time  'e  was  purple  in  the  face  and  'arf  crazy.  'If  I 
had  my  wa}'-  wi'  you,  ye  bung-nosed  intemperates, '  he  says, 
groaning-like — 'I  wad  keep  ye  on  grits  an'  caller  watter 
for  a  fortnicht!  Oh,  that  men,  as  auld  Hosea  says  in  the 
inspired  Screeptures' — an'  I  'appen  to  know  myself  it  was 
Shakespeare — 'should  pit  an  enemy  intil  their  mooths  to 
steal  awa'  their  brains!'  An'  'e  snatches  off  the  telephone 
'ead-band  and  chucks  it  into  the  corner,  and  just  as  my  own 
instrument  starts  to  tick  out  a  call,  he  ketches  me  by  the 
neck  as  if  I'd  bin  a  tame  rabbit,  an'  slings  me  out  o'  the 
office  an'  locks  the  door.  'Out  o'  this!'  'e  says,  puttin'  the 
cabin  key  in  'is  pocket.  'I  will  no'  have  your  lugs,  dirr-ty 
as  they  are,  polluted  by  the  unclean  counsels  o'  the  wicked. 
I'm  awa'  to  cool  the  wrath  o'  the  righteous  wi'  anither 
lemon  squash!'  An'  the  winder  is  blocked  by  the  Morse 
key  instrument,  an'  even  if  it  wasn't,  it's  too  small  for  me 
to  get  in  through!"  Macrombie's  victim  ended,  with  an 
injured  sniff. 

"Well,  well!     Better  hang  about  the  cabin  a  bit  and 


A  Secret  Mission  227 

possess  your  soul  in  patience.  If  any  pupils  drop  along,  tell 
them  they'll  have  to  wait!  Perhaps  Macrombie'll  turn  up 
sober  enough  to  take  them  on  by-and-by.  As  for  the  mes- 
sage in  transmission,  I  daresay  it  will  keep.  Mr.  Fanshaw's 
not  expecting  any  particularly  important  communication 
that  I  know  of.  Oh,  hang  it!"  Sherbrand  whistled  dis- 
mally.    "I'd  forgotten.     That's  just  what  I  am!" 

"Shall  I  go  and  see  if  I  can  find  Rumball?"  suggested 
Alacrombie's  assistant  helpfully.  "He's  at  the  engine-sheds. 
He's  been  a  locksmith.  'Twouldn't  take  him  more  than  a 
sec.  to  open  the  office  door!" 

"Cut  then!"  acceded  Sherbrand,  and  the  telegraph-clerk 
touched  his  pen — discovering  by  a  jab  of  the  inky  nib  that 
he  was  wearing  it — and  set  off  at  a  trot  in  the  direction  of  the 
engine-sheds. 

You  are  to  suppose  that  von  Herrnung's  sharp  ears  had 
gathered  the  pith  of  the  communication.  Some  meaning  in 
the  isolated  words  the  clerk  had  repeated  had  had  a  palpa- 
ble effect  upon  his  nerves.  His  face  looked  bluish-grey 
and  streaky,  as  he  said  to  Sherbrand,  stammering  in  his 
eagerness : 

"So  then,  it  is  agreed  about  my  flying  your  machine?" 

"I  see  no  objection." 

"Gu/.'"  Von  Herrnung  went  on,  concealing  a  huge  joy 
under  a  careless  camaraderie:  "Can  you  lend  me  a  cap 
and  coat  and  a  pair  of  Schuizbrille  ?  Goggles  you  call  them, 
yes!  The  coat  should  better  to  be  a  large  one" — he  stum- 
bled in  his  English  now  through  sheer  excitement — "lam 
so  much  a  bigger  man  than  you!" 

"Certainly.  We  keep  Flying  rigs  in  all  manner  of  sizes. 
It's  in  the  way  of  business,"  Sherbrand  said.  Then  his 
glance  fell  upon  Davis,  whose  little  black-avised  counte- 
nance wore  an  expression  of  sulky  resentment,  and  he 
uttered  a  slight  exclamation.  "I  forgot,  Davis!  I  really 
am  very  sorry!"  He  turned  to  von  Herrnung  and  ex- 
plained  in   a   tone  of  finality  that    enraged    the   hearer: 


228  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"This  is  Davis's  afternoon  off.  I  cannot  ask  him  to 
repeat  the  climb." 

"  It  is  hellishly  annoying !  But  see !  Listen,  my  fellow ! " 
He  addressed  himself  to  little  grimy  Davis,  unhelmeted  and 
unbuttoned,  leaning  against  the  Bird's  flank  with  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  oily  overalls,  chewing  a  blade  of  grass; 
You  will  go  up  with  me  if  I  tip  you  ?  A  sovereign !  Come 
then!  The  gold  does  it!  You  will  go  up  with  me,  will  you 
not,  yes?" 

Davis  spat  out  grass  and  delivered  himself: 

"Not  even  for  my  young  guv'nor — and  a  Bank  of  Eng- 
land finnup,  do  I  do  the  soaring  heagle  hact  again  this 
blooming  Wednesday." 

Welsh  Davis  had  come  to  London  from  a  mountain  farm 
in  Merioneth,  speaking  nothing  but  his  native  Cymric,  and 
had  culled  his  Sassenach  from  Cockney  lips.  Von  Herrnung 
bid  another  sovereign,  and  then  two  more,  ineffectually. 

"Naow!"  Davis  was  rock.  "I've  done  my  day's  stunt 
an'  I'm  nuffy.  D'yer  tumble?  Nuffy!  Yer  knaows  wot 
that  means — if  you're  a  Flying  Bloke!" 

"  Damn.you,  I  will  gif  you  ten  pounds ! "  Von  Herrnung's 
face  was  wrung  and  streaked  with  passion.  He  breathed 
hard,  and  the  brown  leather  satchel  jumped  and  wobbled 
in  his  shaking  hand. 

"It  isn't  any  use,"  said  Sherbrand,  "really!  Money 
doesn't  count  with  Davis  where  his  off-time's  concerned. 
Davis  doesn't  want  to  go  up  again,  and  I've  not  another 
man  of  his  weight  available.  What  do  you  turn  the  scale 
at?     I  should  guess  i6  stone  or  thereabouts?" 

"I  weigh  i6  St.  8  lbs.  in  my  ordinary  clothes." 

"Well,  I  tot  II  St.  6  lbs.  in  the  fullest  of  flying-rig,  and 
Davis  only  8  st.  5  lbs.  And  the  Bird  is  built  to  carry  in 
addition  to  her  engine — what  with  the  instruments,  so  forth, 
and  man-freight,  a  cargo  of  something  like  22  stone.  You 
see,  even  with  Davis,  you'd  load  the  machine  a  good  bit 
over  her" — he  smiled  at  the  conceit — "her  Plimsoll  mark. 


A  Secret  Mission  229 

Again,  I'm  sorry.  It's  your  luck!  No  flying  for  you 
to-day!" 

"  It  is  damnably  annoying !  But " — von  Herrnung's  red- 
lashed  blue  eyes  were  busily  scanning  Bawne's  face  and 
figure — "but  suppose  I  could  get  a  boy  of  6  stone  to  go  up 
with  me  ?  Merely  as  ballast,  for  I  do  not  require  an  assistant 
— the  difficulty  might  be  got  over  in  this  way?  What 
you  say,  my  little  English  fellow?"  He  turned  on  the  boy 
with  a  great  air  of  jovial  patronage.  "Are  you  plucky 
enough?     Shall  we  go  for  a  voyage  together  in  the  sky?" 

"Yes — please!" 

The  dark  blue  eyes  met  the  hard  light  ones  bravely, 
though  every  vestige  of  colour  had  sunk  out  of  the  young 
face.  Then  back  to  lips  and  cheeks  the  banished  colour 
came  racing.  Bawne  flushed  crimson,  as  von  Herrnung 
held  up  a  bright  bit  of  gold,  and  sharply  shook  his  head. 

"  Was  ?  Will  you  not  take  the  sovereign? "  von  Herrnung 
demanded.     "Are  you  a  faint-heart  after  all?" 

The  boy  bit  his  lip  and  said,  clenching  his  small  fists 
desperately: 

"  It's  against  the  rule  for  Scouts  to  take  tips.  So  I  don't 
want  the  money.     But  I'm  ready  to  come  with  you!" 

"Look  here,  old  fellow!"  Sherbrand  was  beginning 
anxiously.     The  boy  stopped  him  with : 

"Really  and  truly  I'm  not  funky — and  you  said  I  was  to 
have  another  flight." 

"So  I  did,  and  so  you  shall,"  agreed  Sherbrand.  "But 
this  won't  be  just  a  'bus  trip  around  the  aerodrome.  It  will 
be  climbing  and  spiralling  and  hovering,  and  all  the  rest!" 

Bawne  persisted: 

"You  could  strap  me  in.     And  I'm  not  afraid — really!" 

"And,"  von  Herrnung  interposed,  "I  shall  not  ascend 
higher  than  three  thousand.  Probably  less  will  do  for  my 
purpose.  The  boy  will  be  quite  safe.  Surely  you  are  able 
to  trust  him  with  me  ? ' ' 

Sherbrand  hesitated,  then  said  to  Bawne  in  a  relieved  tone: 


230  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"Well,  there's  the  Doctor  talking  to  a  tall  lady  in  white 
with  a  hat  that  glitters.  Run  across  to  your  father  and  ask 
him  whether  you  may  go?" 

"I'd  rather  you  asked  him — if  you  must — and  let  me  stop 

here!" 

''Gut!  Sehr  gtU!"  Von  Herrnung's  tautened  nerves 
would  have  been  relieved  by  some  hard  Prussian  swearing. 
He  jangled  out  a  laugh  instead.  He  caught  hold  of  the  boy 
under  the  armpits  and  lifted  him  high  above  his  head. 
"What  is  your  weight  ?  Six  stone?  Come  now,  have  I  not 
guessed  nearly!"  He  had  not  relinquished  his  grip  on  the 
leather  satchel,  and  as  it  banged  against  his  ribs,  Bawne 
realised  that  it  was  quite  light. 

"Papers  inside!"  he  said  to  himself.  Something  quite 
hard  was  under  the  leather  at  the  corners,  perhaps  the 
thinnest  of  metal  plates.  Its  contact  with  the  boy's  body 
seemed  to  sober  von  Herrnung's  exultation.  He  dropped 
Bawne  unceremoniously,  and  straightened  himself  again. 

"How  much  petrol  has  been  used?"  he  asked  hastily  of 
Davis,  going  over  to  the  Bird  and  mounting  on  the  landing- 
carriage  to  look  at  the  gauges.  "  Because  when  I  fly  I  never 
take  risks.  You  will  have  to  fill  up  the  tank  again.  Do 
you  hear,  my  fellow?" 

"If  Mr.  Sherbrand  orders  me,"  Davis  spat  out  another 
piece  of  grass,  "dessay  I  shall  do  it!"  He  eyed  von  Herr- 
nung  with  surly  disapproval  as  he  craned  over  the  Bird's 
fuselage,  while  audibly  commenting  to  an  acquaintance 
who  had  strolled  up : 

"Sheer  blinders,  I  call  'em,  these  ere  Fritzies!  Walk 
into  Buckingham  Pallis  next  minute  and  ask  to  look  into  the 
Privy  Puss.  'Ope  the  Governor  comes  back  before  'e  gits 
Nosey  Parkerin'  into  the  'orizontal  'overing  gear!  Perish 
me  if  I  ever  met  a  bloke  with  such  a  nerve!  Watto,  old 
sonny?"  He  addressed  himself  to  the  boy.  "Ain't  you 
feelin'  up  to  the  posh?" 

"I  am  quite  all  right,  thank  you!"  Bawne  responded, 


A  Secret  Mission  231 

while  his  heart  bumped  against  his  ribs.  In  his  brain 
words  and  sentences  kept  forming: 

"I'm  only  a  little  chap.  And  this  is — a  Big  thing! 
Bigger  than  the  Chief  expected,  perhaps!  And  he  said  he'd 
be  back  in  half  an  hour."  Half  an  hour  meant  thirty 
minutes.  He  glanced  at  the  big  round  white-faced  clock 
above  the  entrance  of  the  cafe  restaurant.  More  than 
fifteen  minutes  of  the  half-hour  had  gone. 

To  stick  to  the  big,  brutal  German  was  his — Bawne's — 
Secret  Mission.  And  the  inspiring,  uplifting  voice  that 
thousands  of  boy-hearts  thrill  to  all  the  big  world  over  had 
said  to  him : 

"Quit  yourself  like  a  man!" 


CHAPTER  XXX 


THE  REAPING 


To  Patrine,  when  the  shadow  of  the  famiHar  figure  of  the 
Doctor  mingled  with  hers  upon  the  dry  green  grass,  and 
Saxham's  voice  called  her  by  her  name,  it  was  as  though  his 
presence  had  a  weight  that  physically  oppressed  her,  and  his 
scrutiny  seared  her  flesh  like  the  approach  of  white-hot  iron. 

Through  her  mind  passed  swift  sentences:  "  Yet  another 
of  us  has  disgraced  him  !  My  father  and  mother  are  not  the 
only  traitors  of  our  name  !"  In  the  rawness  of  her  mental 
anguish  every  sense  was  unnaturally  exaggerated.  The 
ticking  of  Saxham's  watch,  that  the  furious  beating  of  her 
heart  could  not  drown,  tormented  by  its  iteration.  And 
worst  of  all,  was  the  consciousness  of  defilement  in  the 
physical  sense. 

"Did  not  your  mother  give  you  my  message?" 

Always  pale,  her  pallor  did  not  demand  particular  atten- 
tion, save  that  under  their  ruddy  salve  the  edges  of  her  lips 
showed  white.  She  answered,  forcing  the  lips  to  smile, 
compelling  her  eyes  to  meet  Saxham's. 

"About  coming  to  see  you ? "  She  rememberea  ana  drew 
from  her  gilt-chain  vanity  bag  the  letter  she  had  not  posted: 
"This  was  written  to  you  to-day.  Then  I  thought  I  would 
have  been  able  to  look  in  at  Harley  Street,  and  in  the 
end " 

"In  the  end  you  neither  paid  the  visit  nor  posted  the 
excuse.  Well,  be  more  considerate  in  future  to  those  who 
love  you.  Sincere,  clean  love  does  not  grow  on  every 
gooseberry  bush,  my  dear!" 

The  ctirt  speech,  made  in  the  Doctor's  brusquest  tone, 

232 


The  Reaping  233 

conveyed  to  Patrine  an  impression  of  exquisite  kindness. 
So  many  boons,  so  many  benefits  had  been  conferred  in  that 
grim,  curt  way.  She  had  wept  and  would  not  weep  again, 
but  her  hard  bright  eyes  grew  misty  as  she  thanked  him,  and 
asked  after  Lynette,  with  a  touch  of  wistfuhiess  that  re- 
called to  the  Doctor  that  unforgettable  time  when  greedy 
Death  had  threatened  to  rob  him  of  his  joy.  He  answered 
her  cheerfully,  and  they  found  themselves  chatting  of 
familiar,  everyday  matters  across  the  gulf  that  yawned 
between.  And  then,  warned  by  some  swift  change  of 
expression  in  her  face,  Saxham  glanced  up  to  see  Sherbrand 
approaching. 

"Doctor!"  he  called.  "Sorry  to  interrupt,  but  would 
you  listen  a  minute?" 

The  tall,  lightly-built,  lightly  moving  figure  came  swing- 
ing towards  them.  He  still  carried  the  eared  cap  with  the 
goggled  visor,  his  thick,  silvery-blonde  hair  was  darkened  at 
the  temples  with  the  dampness  generated  under  the  close 
covering  of  waterproof.  His  light  grey-blue  eyes  were 
smiling,  yet  there  was  a  pucker  of  anxiety  between  his  eye- 
brows, as  he  put  von  Herrnung's  case. 

"So, "  he  ended,  "instead  of  taking  a  second  flight  in  the 
Bird  with  me  as  we  arranged,  would  you  trust  your  boy  to 
this  foreign  crack  who's  in  a  hole  for  a  passenger?  He  is 
Captain  von  Herrnung  of  the  German  Flying  Service — 
winner  of  the  two-days'  flight  from  Hanover  to  Paris  in- 
April — a  famous  run!"  He  added,  "I  need  hardly  sa^'^ 
that  with  such  a  record  as  von  Herrnung  holds  you  cannot, 
be  apprehensive  of  any  rashness  or  neglect  on  his  part.. 
But  I'll  own  I  would  rather  take  Bawne  up  another  day 
myself.     Still,  von  Herrnung " 

"I  am  aware  of  the  reputation  held  by  the  person  you: 
mention.     I  am  going  now  to  speak  to  him." 

The  Doctor's  face  was  devoid  of  all  expression.  But  he 
battled,   as  he  spoke,   with  a  masterful   desire  to  forbid 


234  That  Which  Hath  Winers 


23- 


Bawne  the  expedition.  To  assert  parental  authority  on 
this  point  would  have  been  the  mode  of  deahng  approved 
by  one  of  the  two  men  who  dwelt  within  the  Dop  Doctor. 
The  other  Saxham  said  "Hold!" 

Dare  you  place  your  paternal  love,  that  other  Saxham 
asked — between  your  son  and  his  duty?  Because  it  would 
be  so  easy  to  do  it,  is  the  reason  why  you  should  refrain ! 
The  Doctor  had  walked  a  few  paces  towards  the  object  of 
his  troubled  reflections.  He  wheeled  abruptly,  returned, 
and  presented  Sherbrand  to  his  niece. 

A  faint  blush  rose  in  Patrine's  white  cheeks  as  her  eyes 
met  those  of  the  tall  young  aviator.  They  looked  at  her 
without  any  sign  of  recognition,  and  the  conviction,  "He 
has  forgotten!"  shot  stingingly  across  her  mind.  "He  did 
not  think  me  worth  remembering"  came  next.  And  then  she 
could  have  laughed,  recalling  that  she  had  dismissed  him 
from  her  own  thoughts  on  the  discovery  of  his  connection 
with  Fanshaw's.  She  had  made  so  certain  that  a  teacher  of 
Flying  couldn't  be  a  gentleman. 

Now,  face  to  face  with  him  again,  in  his  upright  easy  bear- 
ing, in  his  straight  and  fearless  regard,  in  the  pleasant  well- 
bred  voice  that  addressed  her  in  a  brief  conventional 
sentence  or  so,  she  read  his  patent  of  gentlehood. 

From  whatever  root  it  sprang,  the  flower  was  noble.  Her 
swift  eyes  shot  a  glance  at  the  bigger  figure  in  grey.  What  a 
hoggish  knight  of  the  dunghill,  what  a  high-born  clown  had 
she  not  distinguished  by  her  choice  and  selection.  The 
smile  of  scorn  that  curved  her  mouth  was  suddenly  banished 
by  the  vSudden  recollection  of  Bawne. 

"Uncle  Owen,  you  have  not  yet  told  Mr.  Sherbrand 
whether  Bawne  may  go  up  again  or  not.  I  am  sure — if  you 
won't  think  me — if  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so ! — that  he 
has  had  enough  for  to-day!  I  think  it  would  be  better  if 
you  would  not " 

It  was  not  the  deep  warm  voice  of  Patrine's  characteristic 


The  Reaping  235 

utterance,  but  a  weaker,  thinner  voice  that  hesitated  and 
faltered  and  trailed  away.  It  recalled  nothing  to  Sher- 
brand.  He  looked  at  her  and  transferred  his  gaze  to 
Saxham,  who  asked: 

"Does  this  German  officer  intend  climbing  to  any  high 
altitude,  or  perpetrating  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  dis- 
play?" 

Sherbrand  explained: 

"He  does  not  want  to  go  higher  than  three  thousand. 
Just  to  try  the  hoverer,  regarding  which  some  business 
friends  of  his  are  bitten  with  curiosity.  My  mechanic  is  not 
able  to  go  up  with  him,  and  he  wants  a  light-weight  pas- 
senger. He  is  over  sixteen  stone  himself,  and  the  Bird 
has  been  built  to  carry  me  with  Davis.  I  calculated  her 
wing-area  to " 

Sherbrand  travelled  into  the  realm  of  technicalities,  using 
terms  that  were  Volapuk  and  Esperanto  to  Patrine.  He 
had  supple,  finely-shaped  hands,  and  used  them  as  he  talked 
with  vivid  illustrative  gestures. 

"So,  "  he  ended,  "as  your  plucky  youngster  asked  to  go, 
it  seemed  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  provided  you  weren't 
dead  against  the  thing.  Of  course  we'll  swadd  the  little 
chap  in  a  sweater  or  so  under  the  pneumatic  jacket.  It'll 
be  a  bit  parky,  even  at  three  thousand,  now  the  sun's 
beginning  to  down." 

He  added: 

"  I'll  see  to  the  strapping  myself .  You  may  rely  upon  it, 
Doctor." 

Saxham  said  with  a  look  of  kindness  at  the  handsome  face 
with  the  clear  candid  eyes: 

"I  am  sure  of  that!"  He  added,  mastering  that  inward 
impulse:  "I  shall  not  forbid  the  flight  if  Bawne  is  set  on 
it.     But  first,  I  must  speak  to  him!" 

And  the  great  form  with  the  stern  thoughtful  face  and 
scholar's  stoop  moved  across  the  greensward,  followed  by 
the  tall  young  figures  of  Sherbrand  and  Patrine.     Of  the 


236  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

two,  the  man  was  by  a  bare  inch  the  taller.  Thk  Patrine 
realised  in  a  swift  side-glance.  Certain  featural  charac- 
teristics of  him,  personal  impressions  received  half-un- 
consciously,  retained  their  clear  sharpness  then  and  for 
many  days.  .  ,  . 

The  silvery-yellow  hair  toning  into  the  pale  brown  skin. 
The  powerful  sweep  of  the  brows  over  eyes  set  flush  with 
their  large  orbits,  prominent,  brilliant,  mobile  as  the  eyes  of 
a  bird  of  flight.  The  nose,  arched  and  jutting  like  a  kite's 
beak,  with  large  sensitive  nostrils,  the  somewhat  sunken 
cheek  and  the  sharply-angled  jaw,  the  little  ear  and  the 
rounded  skull  superbly  set  upon  the  full  muscular  neck 
rising  out  of  the  collar  of  the  gabardine,  made  up  a  por- 
trait upon  which  some  happy  woman  might  well  dote  and 
dream. 

It  was  five  o'clock  and  the  breeze  that  smelt  of  heather 
and  clover-hay  and  strawberries  blew  more  strongly, 
straight  from  under  the  westering  sun.  Patrine  drank  in 
deep  draughts  of  the  buoyant  sweetness.  The  leaden 
gyves  had  fallen  from  her  limbs,  the  leaden  weight  had 
lifted  from  her  bosom.  She  had  recovered  something  of 
her  old,  elastic  grace  of  movement,  that  even  the  sheath- 
skirt  could  not  spoil.  Looking  at  her,  Sherbrand  said  to 
himself: 

' '  vShe  walks  like  a  Highland  hill-woman  or  a  native  girl 
of  the  Philippines.  And — did  Heaven  or  a  Bond  Street 
specialist  give  her  that  extraordinary  hair?  I  rather  hate 
it,  and  yet  I  have  to  go  on  looking  at  it.  Does  she  know? 
I  wonder  if  she  knows?" 

She  felt  his  eyes  on  her.  And  the  buoyant  sense  of  well- 
being  that  his  presence  brought  to  her  was  mingled  with  an 
agony  of  apprehension.  Her  heart  clamoured,  like  a  brood- 
ing thrush  attacked  by  the  owl,  that  Bawne  should  not  be 
permitted  to  risk  himself  with  von  Herrnung.  "Does  any 
other  living  being  know  him  as  I  know  him?''  she  asked 
herself,     "/f  by  some  misadventure  it  came  to  a  question  of 


The  Reaping  237 

one  life  or  the  other,  would  he  scrtiple — no  !  he  would  not  scruple 
for  an  instant  to  sacrifice  the  child  ?  " 

Three  words  to  Uncle  Owen  — if  one  only  dared  to  speak 
them — would  have  put  the  thing  out  of  the  question.  But 
at  the  thought  of  the  dreadful  avowal  to  which  such  an 
utterance  might  lead,  Patrine  was  stricken  dumb.  She 
could  not  face  the  music.  This  was  one  little  ear  of  wild 
oats  out  of  the  full  field  that  waited  for  her  reaping,  sown 
in  the  hours  that  lie  between  the  midnight  of  pleasure 
and  the  dawn  of  the  Day  of  Remorse. 

Perhaps  she  and  Sherbrand  had  walked  more  slowly 
than  it  had  seemed  to  her.  She  saw  Saxham  and  his  son 
meet,  heard,  indistinctly  the  exchange  of  a  few  brief  sen- 
tences, and  then  the  boy,  with  a  jump  to  hug  his  father 
round  the  neck,  ran  to  her  as  she  came  up. 

"Cousin  Pat,  I'm  going  to  get  into  my  flying-kit  in  a 
minute."  His  heart  was  thumping  so  that  it  shook  him, 
and  the  short  upper  lip  with  the  gold-brown  dust  of  freckles 
on  it  quivered,  hard  as  he  tried  to  keep  it  stiff:  "One 
doesn't  do  it  before  people  generally — but  I'd  rather  like 
you  to  kiss  me  now!" 

"My  precious,  a  dozen  times!" 

She  said  it  impetuously  in  the  deep  womanly  baritone 
that  Bawnc  loved,  and  Sherbrand  started  as  he  heard  it. 
She  dropped  her  tall-sticked  sunshade,  and  caught  the  little 
boyish  figure  to  her  broad  womanly  bosom,  hugged  him 
until  he  panted,  and  kissed  his  pale  cheeks  red.  You  do 
not  need  to  be  reminded  that  Patrine  was  a  galumpher. 
"  Don't  go!  don't  go!"  she  whispered  in  her  darling's  neck. 
"I  hate  your  going!  and  I  don't  believe  Uncle  Owen  likes 
it.  .  ,  .  Say  you've  been  up  once  and  you're  'nuffy!  Pre- 
tend you  funk  it.     Do,  for  my  sake!" 

"  I — can't.  Ouch !  You  tickle !  Please  let  me  go.  This 
is  business!"  He  squirmed,  and  she  burst  out  laughing, 
and  released  him.  The  act  was  a  wrench  that  tore  her 
bleeding  heart  anew. 


238  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

He  bounded  instantly  after  Sherbrand,  seeing  him  go  for- 
ward to  join  von  Herrnung,  who  was  standing  watching 
Davis  fill  the  Bird's  tank  with  petrol,  and  her  reservoir 
with  oil. 

There  was  no  spurring  these  lazy  devils  of  English  into 
movement.  .  .  .  The  accursed  pig-dogs,  the  stupid  sheep's 
heads !  If  that  fragmentary  Wireless  message  had  really  to 
do  with  the  business,  within  the  next  ten  minutes  everything 
might  be  ruined.  One  walked  perilously,  as  amongst 
pebbles,  holding  a  watch-glass  of  High  Explosive  in  one's 
hand.  Here  came  the  man  and  the  bo3\  He  joined  them 
with  a  noisy  burst  of  forced  laughter.  Presently  you  saw 
all  three  moving  in  the  direction  of  a  building  where  the 
"flying-kits  of  all  sorts  and  shapes  and  sizes,"  of  which 
Sherbrand  had  boasted,  were  kept  for  the  use  of  the  patrons 
of  Fanshaw's  School.  As  they  went  in,  Bawne  cast  a  wistful 
glance  up  at  the  clock  on  the  front  gable  of  the  cafe  restau- 
rant, now  supplying  afternoon  tea  served  in  brown  teapots, 
and  rolls  and  butter  on  thick  white  platters,  to  a  thin  sprin- 
kling of  customers. 

"Three  minutes  to  the  half-hour, "  said  the  clock. 

Would  the  Chief  come,  or  must  this  thing  be  carried  out 
by  a  small  boy  whose  heart  lay,  a  palpable  lump  of  cold  lead 
in  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  and  whose  knees  were  turning  to 
jelly  as  he  went? 

If  Cousin  Pat,  when  she  begged  him  not  to  go,  had  known 
how  badly  he,  Bawne,  had  wanted  to  hold  her  round  the 
neck  and  beg  her  not  to  let  him,  he  would  at  this  moment 
have  been  unheroically  safe. 

She  was  so  big.  He  had  most  dreadfully  wanted  to  cling 
to  her  and  cry — imagine  a  fellow  of  twelve  doing  anything  so 
kiddish.  But  he  had  swallowed  the  unmanly  tears,  and 
wriggled  out  of  her  strong  protecting  arms. 

He  looked  back  and  saw  her  tall  white  figure,  standing 
near  the  hulking  black-clad  shape  of  the  Doctor,  who  had 
pulled  his  hat-brim  low  down  over  his  eyes,  and  did  not 


The  Reaping  239 

seem  to  be  talking  or  laughing  at  all.  Davis  was  doing 
something  with  a  spanner  to  the  Bird's  under-carriage, 
and  the  long,  thin  shadow  of  her  in  combination  with  the 
squat  shadow  of  the  little  stooping  Welshman,  stretched 
eastwards  over  the  dry  green  grass. 

He  heaved  a  big  sigh  and  followed  his  man  in.  Von 
Herrnung  was  already  trying  on  pneumatic  coats,  swearing 
in  nervous  German  when  they  were  not  big  enough.  At 
last  he  was  caparisoned,  in  a  heavy  suit  of  flannel-lined 
Carberrys  and  a  buttonless  hooded  jacket.  He  had  stripped 
the  burst  glove  from  his  wounded  hand,  thrown  it  away, 
and  replaced  the  magpie  pearl  ring  upon  his  little  finger. 
He  had  put  on  a  woollen  helmet  and  tied  over  that  a  flapped 
cap  with  goggles  and  ear-pieces.  While  he  attended  to  his 
outfit,  the  leather  satchel  lay  at  his  feet,  or  sometimes  be- 
tween them,  or  he  would  keep  a  boot-toe  on  a  corner  of  it. 
And  his  hard  blue  eyes  were  vigilantly  watchful  against 
surprise. 

Sherbrand  and  the  dresser — who  presided  over  a  long 
room  of  shelves  and  pegs  laden  with  queer  garments,  and 
who  looked  like  a  washed  mechanic  in  spotless  blue  overalls 
— put  Bawne  into  a  woollen  sweater,  and  added  to  the 
panoply  he  had  worn  already  that  morning,  and  which 
consisted  of  leggings,  slip-strapped  to  a  webbing  waistbelt,  a 
pneumatic  jacket,  a  knitted  helmet  such  as  von  Herrnung 
wore,  and  a  pair  of  goggles.  They  looked  like  the  Eskimo 
hunter  and  his  little  boy  in  the  "Book  of  The  Arctic" — a 
volume  specially  beloved  of  Saxham's  small  son. 

It  was  five  minutes  past  the  half-hour  when  they  emerged 
from  the  dressing-shed.  Saxham  came  to  meet  them, 
turned  and  walked  by  his  son's  side.  Davis,  whose  weak- 
ness as  regards  the  sex  we  know,  had  pinched  from  the 
visitor's  enclosure  a  green-painted  iron  chair  for  Patrine. 
She  half-rose,  stung  by  an  impulse  of  escape,  when  she  saw 
von  Herrnung  approaching,  and  then  controlled  herself 
and  sat  down  again. 


240  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Nothing  escaped  her  long  eyes.  They  saw  Sherbrand 
glance  from  Saxham  to  von  Herrnung,  and  read  the  inten- 
tion of  an  introduction  in  his  look.     He  had  just  begun : 

"Doctor,   I   don't   think   you   have  met   Captain " 

when  von  Herrnung  lengthened  his  long  stride,  outstripped 
his  companions,  and  went  over  swiftly  and  stood  beside 
Patrine. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

VON    HERRNUNG    BAITS    THE    HOOK 

She  knew  that  he  had  interpreted  her  movement  as  an 
invitation. 

He  saluted  her  and  said,  speaking  thickly: 

"  It  is  necessary  that  I  have  a  word  with  you.  Walk  with 
me  for  one  moment.     I  shall  not  keep  you  more ! " 

He  bulked  huge  in  his  rig-out,  but  looked  thoroughly  at 
home,  and  deadly  workmanlike.  He  pushed  up  his  goggles 
as  though  conscious  that  they  discounted  his  personal 
attractions,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  stony  and  glittering, 
and  his  full  mouth  showed  pale  and  hard-set  under  the 
scarlet  roll  of  his  moustache. 

"I  shall  not  see  you  again  to-day,  and  I  have  something 
important  to  tell  you."  He  spoke  rapidly  and  his  breathing 
was  harsh  and  loud.  * '  I  have  been  recalled  by  my  Chiefs  and 
return  to  Germany  in — another  two  or  three  days.  That 
we  do  not  meet  again  before  I  leave  is  possible,  therefore  I 
wish  to  give  you  my  address." 

She  did  not  look  up.  A  white  hand  with  red  hairs  grow- 
ing thick  on  the  back  of  it  offered  her  a  pencilled  card. 
She  made  no  movement  to  take  it.  He  said,  thrusting  the 
card  underneath  her  eyes : 

"It  is  printed  here  in  German  letters.  You  read  and 
speak  my  language  badly,  so  I  will  translate  for  you — 
'Squadron-Captain-Pilot  Count  Theodor  von  Herrnung, 
Imperial  Field  Flying  Service,  Flight  Station  XXX., 
Taubefeld,  near  Diebrich,  West  Hessen,  Germany.'  Write 
your  letter  to  me  in  English.  The  address  copy  from  this. 
Will  you  not  take  the  card?" 

"There  is  no  need  to.     I  do  not  mean  to  write  to  you!" 
16  241 


242'  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

''Danke.  You  are  candid, "  he  said,  "  at  least.  You  give 
me  to  understand  that  whatever  happens — "  he  repeated 
the  words  with  a  singular  inflection  "tuhatever  happens! — 
you  will  have  no  more  to  do  with  me?" 

"Have  I  not  told  you  so  twice  already?" 

He  gritted  his  teeth  and  said,  controlling  furious  anger: 

' '  Erkldren  Sie  !  Was  gieht  es  ?  Why  are  you  so — rottenly 
furious  with  me?  You  have  yourself  to  thank  for — what 
has  happened!  You  led  me  on.  You  made  me  crazy 
about  you.  And  the  devil  of  it  is  I  am  so  still!  The  sight 
of  you  maddens  me!  Listen!  Do  not  be  stupid — unkind 
to  yourself  and  to  me !  In  three  days  from  now,  you  will 
get  an  envelope  at  your  Club  with  plenty  of  money.  Join 
me  at  my  headquarters  at  Taubefeld  and  then — you  will 
see!  We  will  be  happy — you  shall  have  plenty  of  money 
to  throw  about  when  we  visit  Berlin  and  other  big  cities, 
and  jewels,  dresses,  pleasure,  admiration — everything  a 
beautiful  woman  wants !  Grosse  Gott !  Can  I  offer  anything 
more  tempting  ?     What  are  you  saying  ?     '  Yes ! '  or  '  No ! ' " 

Her  narrowed  eyes  looked  like  long  black  slits  in  her 
white  face.     The  pale  lips  barely  moved  to  answer: 

"Neither!     Are  you  proposing  to  marry  me?" 

He  laughed  woodenly,  and  repeated : 

"  Marry  you !  Ha,  ha !  What  verdammt  nonsense  are  you 
talking?  What  has  love  to  do  with  getting  married? 
Nothing  that  I  have  ever  heard!  Of  course  I  shall  marry 
— my  family  have  arranged  all  that  for  me.  But  my 
Countess  will  not  interfere  with  my  mistress — that  I  pro- 
mise you!  Come,  be  kind,  my  beautiful  Isis!  Whisper 
now  that  you  agree!" 

He  bent  his  head  to  hear.  The  whisper  came  from  the 
pale  lips : 

"I  will  see  you  in  Hell  first!" 

He  started,  taken  aback.  Her  own  utterance  had 
shocked  her.  "Am  I  a  street-walker  already,"  she  asked 
herself,  "that  I  begin  to  curse  and  swear?" 


Von  Herrnung  Baits  the  Hook       243 

A  whistle  trilled.     He  started  and  said: 

"wSo  then,  all  is  over  between  us?" 

She  bent  her  head  assentingly,  and  her  glance  fell  guiltily 
on  Bawne  who  was  standing  near.  Von  Herrnung,  aware 
of  him  at  the  same  instant,  turned  on  him  with  a  scowl  and 
the  harsh  demand: 

"What  is  this?     Do  little  English  boys  pry  and  listen?" 

Bawne  returned,  looking  at  the  other  squarely: 

"Beg  pardon,  but  Mr.  Sherbrand's  calling  you.  He  says 
it's  getting  jolly  late." 

"So  .'"  Von  Herrnung  glanced  at  his  wrist-watch,  in  the 
act  lifting  the  brown  leather  satchel  into  fullest  view.  The 
boy  queried  with  open-eyed  innocent  curiosity: 

' '  Shall  I  carry  that  ?     Are  you  going  to  take  it  with  you  ? ' ' 

" Es  mag  wohl  sein/'  von  Herrnung  answered.  Then  he 
clicked  his  heels  and  bowed  formally,  and  kissed  Patrine's 
cold  and  heavy  hand.  She  felt  his  teeth  grit  as  he  did  it. 
She  knew  he  was  swearing  in  his  way. 

"Adieu,  then, "  he  said,  smiling  at  her  maliciously.  "Will 
you  not  wish  me  Angenelime  Reise  ?'" 

"Certainly.  A  pleasant  voyage,  and  a  safe  landing!" 
Her  eyes  fell  on  Bawne 's  little,  oddly  garbed  figure  and  her 
woman's  heart  spoke  in  spite  of  her.  "Take  care  of  my 
dearest ! ' '  broke  from  her,  and  von  Herrnung  answered : 

"He  is  your  dearest?  Ah  yes!  I  will  certainly  take 
very  good  care  of  him ! ' ' 

He  bowed,  wheeled  about  and  walked  from  her  with  his 
long  strides,  and  the  boy,  with  a  face  all  flushed  and  quiver- 
ing, suddenly  jumped  at  her  neck  and  hugged  her;  bringing 
with  the  rough  little  embrace  the  queer  scent  of  water- 
proofed material  and  dubbined  leather,  knocking  the  silver- 
spangled  hat  awry,  loosening  divers  tortoiseshell  hairpins 
and  an  amethyst  slide-buckle  holding  up  the  heavy  tresses 
of  the  dead  beech-leaf  coloured  hair,  as  he  whispered: 

"Remember  I  love  you,  Pat.     Don't  mind!" 

And  she  shuddered  as  he  freed  her,  and  ran  from  her. 


244  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

asking  herself:  How  much  had  the  child  overheard  of  von 
Herrnung's  proposal?  What  had  he  comprehended  of 
what  he  had  heard? 

Next,  she  was  aware  of  the  pleasant  voice  of  Sherbrand 
calling,  and  saw  von  Herrnung  imperiously  beckoning.  A 
cold  sickness  of  dread  assailed  her,  and  her  knees  trembled 
underneath  her  weight.  A  mechanic  came  running  past, 
carrying  away  the  chair  Davis  had  brought  her.  He  set  it 
down  at  a  safe  distance  from  the  aeroplane,  and  she  stag- 
gered to  it,  leaning  on  the  long  staff  of  her  sunshade,  and 
sat  heavily  down,  feeling  chilly  and  old.  .  .  . 

Saxham  had  squeezed  Bawne's  shoulder  and  kissed  him, 
and  then  withdrawn  to  a  distance  whence  he  could  see  all 
that  took  place.  He  watched  Davis  and  Sherbrand  help 
the  boy  into  the  forward  cockpit,  and  fasten  about  him  the 
safety  belt  attached  to  the  fuselage  on  either  side  of  the 
fixed  bamboo  seat. 

"You  are  sure  you  really  want  to  fly  again?  Mind,  I 
believe  you're  as  safe  with  him  as  houses,  but  if  you  don't 
want  to  go,  say  the  word,  and  you  shan't!" 

Sherbrand  whispered  the  words  as  he  busied  himself 
with  the  boy.  And  Bawne  set  his  small  teeth  and  squared 
his  sturdy  boyish  shoulders,  registering  an  unspoken  vow  to 
go  in  spite  of  all.   .   .   . 

One  had  been  told  to  drop  a  word  to  Sherbrand  if  one 
found  oneself  in  a  tight  place.  But  could  one  ever  hold  up 
one's  head  again  before  the  Patrol,  if  one  did  this?  To 
share  one's  Mission  with  another  when  the  Chief  had  said 
"I'd  rather  you'd  carry  through  on  your  own"  wasn't  to  be 
thought  of.  Mother — he  swallowed  hard  at  the  thought  of 
her — would  say  so  too. 

It  troubled  his  faithful  little  soul  that  he  could  no  longer 
see  von  Herrnung.  He  heard  him  talking  in  his  guttural 
English,  to  Davis,  whom  Bawne  could  not  see  either — as 


Von  Herrnung  Baits  the  Hook       245 

he  stood  near  the  nose  of  the  machine,  in  readiness  to  start 
the  tractor — any  more  than  the  two  mechanics  who  steadied 
the  Bird,  pressing  each  a  toe  on  the  axle  of  the  under-carriage 
as  they  held  on  to  a  steel  rod  that  ran  along  under  the  rear- 
ward edges  of  her  single  plane. 

His  final  directions  sharply  given,  von  Herrnung  stepped 
up  on  the  under-carriage,  threw  a  long  leg  over  the  bulwark 
of  the  fuselage,  and  stepped  into  the  pilot's  pit.  Bawne 
screwed  his  head  round  and  saw,  through  and  over  a  low 
talc  wind-shield,  the  upright  torso  of  the  German,  big,  hard, 
and  indomitable,  the  leather  satchel  still  gripped  in  his 
strapped-up  left  hand. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  that  leather  case  along  with  you? " 
Sherbrand's  voice  had  a  note  of  surprise  in  it.  "You'll  find 
it  a  handicap,  let  me  say.  You  can't  sit  on  it  or  lean  against 
it,  and  if  you  tried  to  put  it  under  you,  you'd  find  it  dead- 
certain  to  foul  the  controls." 

To  Sherbrand's  voice,  von  Herrnung's  answered  harshly 
and  rather  angrily: 

"Surely  I  shall  be  able  to  carry  this?  It  is  nott-thing 
but  a  folding  camera,  with  a  telephoto  lens  made  especially 
for  Survey  and  Reconnaissance.  There  is  still  a  good  light. 
If  I  fly  with  the  sun  behind  me,  I  shall  be  able  to  take  quite 
a  panorama  of  London  North-West.  It  is  not  forbidden 
— no?     Your  Government  would  not  object?" 

"I  don't  suppose  my  Government  would  care  a  little 
hang!"  Sherbrand's  voice  answered.  "But — this  isn't 
one  of  your  German  Army  Albatros's  or  Kondors,  and  I 
don't  see  where  you're  to  stow  your  camera,  unless  in  the 
observer's  pit.  Of  course  the  hovering  installation  takes 
up  a  lot  of  room,  and  I  can't  possibly  risk  your  hampering 
the  controls." 

"Ganz  recht !  Very  good'"  came  von  Herrnung's  voice, 
giving  in  with  simulated  heartiness.  In  another  moment 
his  long  legs,  followed  by  his  great  body,  came  scrambling 
into  the  forward  cockpit,  and  his  hands  busied  themselves 


246  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

about  the  stout  belt  of  pig-leather  that  secured  the  boy  in 
the  observer's  seat. 

"Look  here,  my  fellow!  You  will  take  care  of  this  for 
me?  See,  I  have  passed  the  belt-strap  through  the  handle. 
Do  not  touch  it!"  The  guttural  whisper  had  menace  in 
it.  "I  shall  be  sure  to  know  if  you  touch  it,  or  try  to  un- 
buckle the  strap." 

"What's  up?"  Sherbrand's  head  and  shoulders  came 
thrusting  over  the  other  side  of  the  cockpit.  "Why  did  you 
unstrap  him?"  he  demanded  brusquely  of  von  Herrnung. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  he  is  my  friend's  son,  and  that  it  is 
my  business  to  see  to  this?"  Sherbrand's  hand  felt  over 
Bawne's  belts  and  bucklings  before  his  head  and  shoulders 
vanished.  Then  von  Herrnung's  big  body  withdrew  itself. 
His  voice,  sounding  from  the  pilot's  pit  on  the  other  side  of 
the  low  wind-shield,  gave  a  peremptory  order,  and  the 
tractor  began  slowly  to  revolve.  An  instant  later,  with  a 
blinding  flash,  it  began  to  roar  and  whizz  round  furiously. 
The  Bird,  freed  from  the  hands  that  detained  her,  leaped 
forwards,  hurtling  over  the  smooth  turf  at  the  speed  of  a 
racing  motor-car.  The  smooth  floor  of  the  cockpit  un- 
expectedly tilted  up,  and  a  rough  cold  wind  buffeted  Bawne 
about  the  head  and  shoulders,  sent  eddies  down  about  his 
dangling  feet,  bellowed  in  his  covered  ears  and  made  him 
gasp  for  breath.  Then — houses  and  people,  trees,  and 
hangars  fell  suddenly  away,  and  he  knew  that  the  Bird 
was  rushing  upwards  at  the  bidding  of  its  "Gnome"  motor 
— long  superseded  now,  but  then  the  latest  marvel  in 
aeiial  engineering — towards  the  blue  sky  with  its  lines  of 
gilt  mackerel  clouds.  On  each  side  of  the  roaring,  flashing 
whirl  that  meant  the  tractor,  spread  North  Middlesex, 
with  its  fields  fast  diminishing  to  the  size  of  billiard  tables. 
That  patch  no  bigger  than  a  garden-lawn,  with  a  row  of 
wooden  things  like  dog-kennels  and  chicken-coops,  must  be 
— Bawne  knew  that  it  was — the  aerodrome.  Deafened 
by  the  noise  and  a  little  sick,  for  the  roaring,  striving, 


Von  Herrnung  Baits  the  Hook       247 

hurtling  Thing  in  whose  body  he  sat  fastened,  stank  horribly 
of  castor  oil,  and  seemed  to  agonise  and  call  on  Bawne  to 
suffer  with  it — he  looked  up  and  took  courage  from  the 
warm,  blue,  beautiful,  cheerful  sky. 

He  was  quitting  himself  like  a  man.  Nobody  could  say 
otherwise.  How  high,  how  much  higher  was  the  Bird  going 
to  climb? 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


ADVENTURE   IN  THE  AIR 


He  looked  down,  and  under  his  feet,  left  of  the  long 
transparent  case  that  housed  the  horizontal  hovering  gear, 
was  a  little  steel-framed  glass  port.  Seen  through  this,  the 
ground  with  its  trees,  fields  and  houses,  hurried  along 
beneath  him  as  though  a  comet,  travelling  in  the  opposite 
direction,  had  been  harnessed  to  our  old  earth,  and  was 
towing  her  away. 

The  floor  of  the  cockpit  suddenly  altered  its  angle.  It 
had  tilted  upwards.  Now  it  tilted  all  to  one  side.  Sick  and 
dizzy,  but  secure,  the  boy  hung  in  his  straps  as  she  lay  over, 
and  saw  on  his  left  hand  a  wing  of  the  Bird  rising  and 
blotting  out  the  heavens,  while  on  his  right  hand  the  earth 
reared  up  so  horribly  that  Bawne  could  only  shut  his  eyes 
tight  and  hold  on  to  the  arms-straps  of  his  seat,  and  gasp 
out  a  little  prayer.  Then  the  cockpit  floor  became  more 
level,  and  the  wind  buffeted  less.  The  roar  of  the  tractor 
and  the  twanging  drone  of  the  wires  made  one's  bones  hum 
and  tingle  to  the  very  ends  of  one's  teeth  and  finger-tips. 
But  nothing  had  happened.     Perhaps  nothing  would ! 

He  drew  a  great  breath  of  relief,  and  his  heart  left  off 
bumping.  His  mouth  was  cold  inside  and  his  tongue  felt 
dry  and  stiff.  Only  Our  Lord  and  Our  Lady  and  his 
guardian  Angel  had  seen  him  funky,  and  for  this  Bawne  was 
grateful.     They  understood,  and — people — would  not. 

He  guessed  it  about  a  quarter  to  six  o'clock.  By  the 
genial  warmth  on  one  cheek  and  shoulder,  and  the  way  his. 
shadow  stretched  over  the  pale  grained  ash-wood  that  lined 
the  cock-pit,  he  knew  the  west  must  be  upon  the  left. 

He  raised  himself,  craning  his  neck,  and  through  the  low 

248 


Adventure  in  the  Air  249 

wind  screen  behind  him,  against  the  background  of  a  sky  all 
flaming  and  boiling  with  molten  gold  and  liquid  amber,  he 
saw  the  wide  square  shoulders  and  tall  helmeted  head  of 
von  Herrnung,  the  hard  eyes  staring  unflinchingly  through 
their  round  glass  goggles,  the  mouth  set  in  a  straight 
inflexible  line  under  the  tight  red  roll  of  the  moustache. 

The  red-moustached  mouth  opened,  and  von  Herrnung 
shouted  something.  Nothing  reached  the  boy  but  a  sort  of 
muffled  roar.  He  shook  his  head  vigorously,  and  then — 
one  does  not  wear  the  Signaller's  Badge  for  nothing! — 
released  a  stifl"  little  gloved  hand  from  its  grip  on  the  arm- 
rest, and  rapped  out  with  his  clenched  right  fist  on  the  edge 
of  the  fuselage : 

''I— can't— hear!'' 

The  Code  was  understood.  The  helmeted  head,  some 
four  feet  distant,  nodded.  One  of  von  Herrnung's  gaunt- 
leted  hands  freed  itself  from  the  steering-bar.  Its  knuckles 
drubbed  out  the  question: 

"Have  you  the  brown  satchel?" 

Bawne  had  quite  forgotten  the  brown  satchel.  He 
screwed  back  his  head  and  looked  down  and  there  it  was, 
lying  on  the  numb  knees  of  him,  buckled  to  him  by  the 
tough  strap  of  pigskin  that  held  him  in  his  seat.  He 
nodded  assent,  and  signalled: 

"All  right!" 

"Good!"  von  Herrnung  signalled  back  through  the 
hurly-burly  of  the  Bird's  transit.  Bawne  mustered  courage 
to  knock  out: 

"Where  are  we?     When  shall  we  go  down?" 

Von  Herrnung's  right  hand  lifted  itself,  and  described 
a  sweeping  half-circle.  The  brusque  gesture  answered 
Bawne's  first  question,  bidding  him  look  and  see. 

The  boy,  impeded  in  his  view  by  reason  of  his  small  pro- 
portions, wriggled  in  his  straps  so  as  to  get  his  chin  well 
over  the  gunwale  of  the  Bird's  fuselage  and  the  buffetting 
wind  that  was  dug  up  and  spaded  over  her  bows  by  the 


250  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

dizzying  revolutions  of  the  tractor,  got  hold  of  him  and 
pummelled  and  buffetted  him  again.  Her  course  was  still 
north,  the  sun  was  setting  in  great  smoking  lakes  of  gold  and 
sulphur  on  her  left  as  she  flew.  Thick  patches  of  dark 
green  bushes  that  probably  were  woods,  reddish-green 
blotches  that  might  be  heathy  commons,  shiny,  square 
patches  that  he  guessed  at  as  reservoirs,  toybox  villages 
that  were  thriving  suburban  boroughs,  specks  that  were 
villas,  glittering  ribbons  that  suggested  canals,  and  one 
broad  shiny  stripe  that  was  a  river  with  tiny  boats  upon  it, 
were  swirling  from  right  to  left,  sweeping  along  in  the  oppo- 
site direction,  under  the  rushing  body  of  the  winged  thing 
that  bore  him,  ruled  by  the  hand  of  von  Herrnung  upon  the 
steering-wheel. 

Behind  her  a  chaotic,  formless  greyness  brooded  on  the 
horizon,  innumerable  spires  rose  out  of  it  and  a  glittering 
haze  hung  over  all.  That  was  London,  the  great  grimy 
Mother  of  Cities  tearing  away  from  her  little  son  at  eighty 
miles  an  hour.  The  shriek  of  an  engine  and  the  rumble  of  a 
train  reduced  by  distance  to  infinite  tenuity  pulled  the  boy's 
eyes  downwards.  A  weeny  mechanical  toy  that  meant  one  of 
the  double-humped  colossi  of  steam  traction,  dragging  a 
string  of  match-box  goods  trucks,  raced  another  locomotive, 
towing  a  crowded  passenger-train  neck  and  neck  along  the 
spider-fine  perspective  of  gossamers  that  meant  the  Great 
Eastern  Railway.  Now  fear  was  swamped  in  the  sheer  joy 
of  the  experience.  This  thin  air  that  kept  you  perpetually 
gulping  and  swallowing  saliva,  made  you  feel  more  than  ever 
how  good  it  is  to  be  alive. 

Billows  and  billows  of  green,  interspersed  with  patches  of 
purple  heather,  meant  Epping  Forest,  though  he  did  not 
know  it.  A  great  aggregation  of  grey  walls  and  housetops, 
looking  like  a  section  of  an  old  wasp's  nest,  stood  for  Wal- 
tham  Abbey  as  the  Bird  drove  on.  Quite  a  tangle  of  the 
shiny  grey-blue  streaks  that  were  rivers  meant  Lea  and 
Orwell,  Ouse,  and  their  trouty  tributaries.     East  England 


Adventure  in  the  Air  251 

rolled  away  underneath  like  an  endless  carpet  woven  In 
irregular  patches  of  many  hues.  Green  and  brown,  grey 
and  yellow,  and  innumerable  shades  of  these,  so  tempting  in 
their  suggestions  of  good  things  to  eat  that  a  most  unheroic 
hunger  reminded  the  schoolboy  of  tea-time,  hours  and  hours 
gone  by. 

He  looked  round  in  search  of  von  Herrnung,  who  main- 
tained unchanged  the  same  attitude,  his  shoulders  level,  his 
unseen  hands  steady  as  rock  upon  the  wheel  of  the  steering- 
pillar,  his  mouth  shut  tightly,  his  hard  eyes  ranging  ahead 
or  lowered,  as  he  conned  his  course  in  masterly  fashion  by 
aid  of  the  roller-map,  protected  by  its  transparent,  rainproof 
casing,  or  the  compass,  clock,  altimeter,  and  other  instru- 
ments gimballed  in  the  wooden  frame  in  front  of  the  pilot's 
seat. 

"How  long?"  the  small  fist  rapped  out.  Von  Herrnung 
detached  a  hand  and  signalled  in  answer: 

"One  hour!" 

"When  do  we  go  home?" 

"We  go  home  now!"  the  hand  signalled,  and  the  boy 
settled  down  in  his  seat  to  wait. 

Between  hunger  and  weariness  he  dozed,  and  soon  slept 
soundly,  his  hands  hanging  laxly  over  the  leather  arm-rests 
and  his  head  nodding  over  the  brown  satchel  lying  on 
his  knees.  It  figured  in  his  dreams  as  something  huge, 
oppressive  and  uncanny,  that  suddenly  took  to  itself 
malevolent  life,  spread  a  pair  of  wide  leathery  bat- 
wings,  and  would  have  flown  away  but  that  he  gripped  it 
fast. 

"No,  no!  You  shan't!  I  promised!"  he  heard  himself 
crying,  and  suddenly  the  thing  collapsed  limply  in  his  grasp 
and  became  nothing  but  a  satchel,  and  he  was  awake. 
Awake  and  very  stilT  and  rather  sick  and  sleepy,  and  with 
the  salt  smell  in  his  nostrils  and  the  salt  taste  in  his  mouth 
that  meant — that  could  only  mean  the  Sea. 


252  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

He  looked  over  the  gunwale  and  cried  out  in  astonishment. 
For  a  vast  carpet  of  rounded  woolly-grey-white  clouds  la}' 
spread  beneath.  The  carpet  beginning  to  rise  and  the  cock- 
pit floor  to  incline  downwards,  a  thin  clammy  fog  suddenly 
blotted  out  everything.  The  Bird  had  dived  through  a 
field  of  woolpack  mixed  with  ground-fog.  Now  flying  some 
hundred  feet  beneath  it,  she  regained  her  level,  in  the  clear 
light  stained  by  the  sunset  as  water  in  which  a  dash  of  red 
wine  is  mingled,  the  light  that  is  the  aftermath  of  a  radiant 
summer's  day.  And,  with  the  smell  of  the  sea  sharper  in  his 
nostrils,  the  boy  became  aware  of  moving,  muddy-grey 
water,  with  ships  and  boats  and  steamers  on  it,  far  down 
below. 

Now  the  southerly  breeze  that  had  steadily  tagged  on 
some  twenty-three  miles  an  hour  to  the  Bird's  eighty  odd, 
began  to  veer  and  come  in  strengthening  puffs  and  gusts 
from  the  north-west.  Swirling  eddies  of  air  came  upwards 
from  the  water,  rocking  the  machine  as  a  swell  takes  a  boat 
at  sea,  and  splashed  upon  the  frail,  silk-covered  wings  of  the 
aeroplane  in  deluges  of  invisible  spray. 

On  the  right  hand  and  the  left  were  wide  stretches  of 
muddy  grey  salt  water,  banks  of  sand,  and  drain-piped  fore- 
shore merging  in  patches  of  potato  and  swede  and  yellow 
squares  of  unripe  corn.  Clusters  of  white  dots,  where 
shingle  and  sea-walls  bordered  the  drab,  restless  water, 
were  fishing  hamlets,  villages  and  little  coal-port  towns. 
Upon  the  north  bank,  rapidly  receding  in  distance,  could  be 
dimly  sensed,  beyond  a  dense  fringe  of  masts  standing 
close  as  pins  in  rows  upon  a  pincushion,  the  oblongs  and 
squares  and  rectilinears  of  docks  and  shipyards,  stone 
quays,  and  piers  and  tide-basins,  mixed  up  with  blocks  and 
streets  of  sheds  and  warehouses,  stations  and  goods-yards, 
and  huge,  many  windowed  factories,  whose  towering 
chimneys  yet  belched  forth  thick  black  smoke-gouts,  licked 
by  red  tongues  of  flame.  Though  even  if  the  Saturday  noon 
steam-siren  had  not  silenced  the  throbbing  of  pneumatic 


Adventure  in  the  Air  253 

rivetting-hammers  and  the  roaring  of  steam  coal-shoots, 
hydraulic  grain  dischargers  and  oil-pumps,  and  all  the  hellish 
hubbub  accompanying  the  huge  export  and  import  trade  of 
Yorkshire  and  Lancashire  with  North  Europe  and  the 
Continent,  these  sounds  would  not  have  reached  the  ears  of 
the  boy  in  the  aeroplane  save  as  a  dull  and  muffled  murmur, 
vaguely  sensed,  through  the  musical  moaning  of  the  stay- 
wires  and  the  racket  of  the  tractor-screw. 

Now  the  sunset  was  behind.  The  land  was  rushing  back 
upon  the  right  and  left-hand.  The  two-mile-wide  river  was 
broadening  to  a  great  estuary,  vaster  than  the  Thames, 
between  Fort  Victoria  and  Shoeburyness. 

Long  crawling  strings  of  linked-up  barges,  sailing  vessels 
of  the  old  windjammer  type  and  yachts  of  the  latest  rig, 
battered  tramp  and  collier  steamers,  high-sided  rusty  look- 
ing oil-tankers,  pilot-cutters,  coastguard  motor-launches, 
whole  fleets  of  steam-trawlers,  thrashed  up  and  down  its 
broad  south  side  fairways  or  cannily  negotiated  the  treacher- 
ous channels  of  the  north  bank.  Ocean-going  giants  of  the 
Merchant  Service,  flaunting  the  White  Bordered  Jack,  or 
the  Red  Duster,  or  under  Admiralty  Warrant,  displaying 
the  Blue  Ensign.  Behemoths  of  the  North  Sea  pas.senger- 
service  showing  the  three-striped  merchant-flag  of  Germany 
— or  the  tricolour  of  the  Netherlands,  or  the  Crosses  of 
Norway,  Sweden  and  Denmark — with  more  rarely  some 
big  grey  armoured  cruiser  upon  harbour  and  Coastal  De- 
fence Service,  or  a  brace  of  stumpy,  square-ended  patrol- 
boats,  or  a  trio  of  the  stinging  black  hornets  we  have 
learnt  to  call  torpedo-boat  destroyers,  ranging  in  company 
upon  some  business  of  the  Powers  that  order  Britannia's 
naval  affairs. 

Fascinating,  wonderful  to  look  down  upon.  Alike,  how- 
ever diverse  in  size,  shape  or  uses,  in  the  impression  of 
flat  unsubstantiality  conveyed  to  you — together  with  the 
doubt  that  the  emmets  crawling  upon  them  could  possibly 
be  life-sized  men.     A  drifting  daisy-petal  meant  a  smart 


254  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

private  steam-yacht.  You  looked  down  from  two  thousand 
feet  above,  on  the  open-lidded  snuffboxes  that  signified 
the  fire-control  and  signalling-stations  of  some  Leviathan 
of  the  Home  Fleet,  and  a  string  of  black  holes  jabbed  in  an 
oval  of  floating  white  millboard  represented  her  funnels, 
black  discs  or  white  alternately  stood  for  her  ventilators; 
and  her  imposing  deck  works,  her  turrets  or  barbettes,  her 
gun-houses  and  casemates,  and  the  terrible  monsters  blood- 
thirstily  nosing  out  of  them,  were  reduced  to  a  more  or  less 
symmetrical  arrangement  in  thick  or  thin  black  lines. 

The  rosy  light  was  greying.  The  gusts  came  more  fitfully. 
To  the  south,  upon  the  right  hand,  were  stone-built  forti- 
fications with  black  muzzles  of  big  guns  poking  from  the 
ramparts,  over  stretches  of  salty  marsh,  drab-coloured 
mud-flats,  and  slimy  rocks  covered  with  blackened  seaweed, 
sticking  up  from  pale  silvery  sand-shoals,  licked  by  the  rest- 
less white  tongues  of  the  outgoing  tide,  and  biunped  by 
stranding  buoys.  Black  dots  and  grey  dots  wheeled  and 
scurried  and  settled.  Crows  and  gulls  were  feeding  raven- 
ously as  the  tide  drew  off  the  flats  and  sand-shoals.  And 
by  the  queer  sensation  in  his  empty  stomach,  Bawne  knew 
that  he  too  was  ravenous. 

From  the  beaconed  north  shore  of  the  vast  estuary  basin, 
edged  now  by  low  rambling  cliffs,  and  belts  of  shingle  and 
sand,  a  long  curving  headland  with  two  lighthouses  at  the 
crook-end,  rushed  now  towards  the  Bird  at  what  seemed  the 
speed  of  an  express  train.  Bawne  winced  as  the  tall  granite 
towers,  topped  with  helmet-shaped  domes  of  rust-red  iron, 
rose  up  like  twin  giants  threatening  to  destroy.  An  iron 
balcony  with  a  flagstaff  and  signal-mast  ringed  the  base 
of  each  dome-top,  a  stairway  spiralled  round  each  shaft  to  a 
railed  stone  platform  well  above  high-water  mark.  And  a 
shrimp-sized  man  in  a  red  guernsey  waved  a  speck  of  blue 
handkerchief,  and  bellowed  a  disproportionately  loud  greet- 
ing through  what  was  presumably  a  megaphone.  In  reality 
the  lighthouse-keeper  was  indicating  the  M.  O.  cone  storm- 


Adventure  in  the  Air  255 

signal  which  hung  point  downwards  from  the  west  end  of  the 
yard-arm,  presaging  a  south-west  or  north-westerly  gale. 
Whether  or  no  this  warning  was  lost  upon  von  Herrnung, 
proof  of  its  value  followed.  For  a  great  upleaping  billow  of 
brine-tasting  wind  caught  the  Bird  as  she  flashed  past  the 
twin  lighthouses  upon  the  headland,  tossing  her  upwards 
like  a  withered  leaf.  And  a  curved  iron  shutter  in  the 
nearer  of  the  two  rust-red  dome-tops  rolled  down  exactly  as 
the  nictitating  membrane  of  a  bird's  eye  does — and  with  a 
wink  of  glass  from  the  prismatic  reflector,  a  broad  triple 
beam  of  blinding-white  acetylene  light  leaped  north,  east 
and  south.  In  the  same  instant  upon  each  side  of  the  flash- 
ing tractor,  the  boy  sensed  a  vast,  shimmering,  liquid  rest- 
lessness.    Here  was  the  Sea,  the  very  Sea. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


BAWNE  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH 


Something  in  the  blood  of  the  child  answered  to  the  call 
of  the  Ancient  Mother.  He  cried  out,  half  in  terror,  half  in 
delight,  and  the  cockpit  tilted  so  suddenly  that  he  was  vio- 
lently jerked  against  the  seat-back  and  the  canvas  bulkhead 
behind  him.  Looking  up  he  saw  a  large  old  moon  of  lumin- 
ous yellow,  sailing  away  overhead  through  a  sky  all  shot 
with  pink  and  grey  as  though  hollowed  out  of  a  fire-opal. 
The  Bird  was  rushing  through  space  at  ninety  miles  an  hour, 
and  great  lumps  of  cold  salt  wind  splashed  over  Bawne  and 
took  his  breath  away,  and  his  hands  were  numbed  with 
bitter  cold  and  his  legs  were  legs  of  ice. 

So  brave  a  spirit  dwelt  in  his  little  breast,  that  the  sob 
that  heaved  it  and  the  tears  that  stung  his  eyelids  and 
dimmed  his  goggles,  were  swallowed  and  blinked  away  as 
soon  as  shed.  The  cockpit  became  level,  and  there  was  an 
imperious  rapping  behind  him,  on  the  upper  canvas  deck. 
He  turned  his  head  and  met  the  hard  unflinching  stare  of 
von  Herrnung,  who  held  in  the  hand  with  which  he  had 
rapped  a  bitten  piece  of  chocolate.  Still  munching  he 
signalled : 

"Hungry?" 

He  smiled  grimly  as  the  boy  nodded  in  the  affirmative, 
stuffed  the  bit  of  sweetstuff  into  his  mouth,  produced 
from  its  cache  below  the  level  of  the  upper  deck  another 
square  of  chocolate,  tore  off  the  silver  foil  with  his  teeth, 
and  crunched  it  greedily. 

He  smiled,  because  of  a  queer  tickling  pleasure  he  felt  as 
he  did  this,  akin  to  the  sensation  experienced  when  his 
taunts  had  tortured  Patrine.     "Take  care  of  my  dearest!" 

256 


Bawne  Learns  the  Truth  257 

he  fancied  he  could  hear  her  saying.  .  .  .  Not  until  she 
had  committed  herself  to  that  incautious  utterance,  had  he, 
von  Herrnung,  realised  what  rich  vengeance  on  the  desired, 
hated  woman  might  be  wreaked  by  the  simple  act  of  carry- 
ing off  the  boy,  whom  he  had  regarded  until  then  as  a  mere 
bag  of  ballast;  less  useful,  but  certain  to  prove  less  trouble- 
some, than  the  Cockney-tongued  Welshman,  who  might  or 
might  not  carry  a  cheap  revolver  in  the  hip-picket  under  his 
overalls  with  which  to  enforce  his  protest  against  being 
taken  away. 

Von  Herrnung  was  himself  armed  with  a  Browning  auto- 
matic pistol.  A  deadly  shot,  he  would  have  been  capable  of 
dealing  with  half  a  dozen  Davises  upon  the  solid  ground. 
But,  no  lover  of  avoidable  risks,  he  saw  himself  steering  with 
one  hand  and  shooting  with  the  other,  while  Davis  sat 
astride  the  chair  in  the  observer's  cockpit,  and  argued 
with  an  eighteen-and-sixpenny  Birmingham  four-chamber, 
loaded  with  the  cheap  little  cordite  cartridges,  whose  pea- 
sized  bullet  can  kill  a  fine  big  man. 

"What  is  this ?     You  are  sick? " 

Even  while  keeping  his  ears  open  and  his  eyes  skinned, 
as  he  negotiated  the  Bird  through  a  choppy  cross-current, 
conning  his  course  between  the  compass  and  the  roller- 
chart-map,  now  illuminated  by  an  electric  bulb,  his  great 
shoulders  shook  with  merriment  as  he  saw  the  boy's  head 
sink  helplessly  against  the  side  of  the  fuselage,  and  his  small 
body  convulsed  by  throes  of  the  sickness  that  is  indis- 
tinguishable from  the  dismal  malady  of  the  sea.  He  had 
shut  off  the  engine  to  shout  to  him.  And  in  the  sudden 
cessation  of  the  tractor's  racket,  the  deep  organ  note  of  the 
waters  rolled  in  upon  the  hearing,  mingled  with  the  shrill 
piping  of  the  wires  and  the  ruffle  of  the  freshening  wind.  As 
he  switched  on  power  once  more,  the  broad  white  ray  from 
the  Bull  Light  leaped  forth  again  and  caught  them  as  it  ran 
eastwards  over  the  tumbling  white-crested  billows,  flinging 
a  huge  shadow  of  von  Herrnung  over  the  canvas-covered 
17 


/ 


258  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

space  of  deck  before  him  and  showing  him  to  the  white- 
faced  boy  who  had  twisted  round  once  more  to  look  at  him, 
as  a  featureless  human  torso  shaped  out  of  solid  ebony  with 
diamond  specks  for  eyes  and  gleams  of  grinning  ivory 
teeth. 

"When  are  we  going  home?  Why  are  we  over  the  sea 
now?" 

Von  Herrmmg  shut  off  again  for  the  luxury  of  hearing  and 
answering : 

"  I  have  told  you  because  we  are  going  home.  Our  home 
is — Germany.  You  will  not  be  an  English  boy  but  German, 
once  I  have  got  you  there!" 

The  shrill  cry  of  anger  that  came  from  the  open  mouth  of 
the  white  face  was  lost  to  him  in  the  necessity  of  switching 
on  the  engine.  He  nodded  pleasantly  to  the  white  face  and, 
in  the  darkness  of  his  own  shadowy  visage,  there  was  the 
glimmer  of  a  laugh.  Then  he  applied  himself  to  other 
business,  for  the  tide  would  turn  in  an  hour,  and  then  the 
wind  might  blow  hellishly  from  the  nor'-west.  Flying 
lower,  he  knew  his  course  the  true  one,  for  the  white  head- 
light and  green  starboard-lights  of  a  big  steamer  pricked 
twinkling  holes  in  the  thick  grey  dusk  to  northward  on  his 
port  beam.  He  told  himself  she  was  one  of  the  Elbe  Com- 
pany's big  bluff-bowed  liners  making  from  Newcastle  for 
Hamburg  Docks.  The  stern-lights  of  a  sister-ship  hailing 
from  Grimsby,  by  her  steerings,  were  also  discernible  in  the 
mirk  ahead,  while  the  lights  from  her  tiers  of  cabins  made 
her  look  like  a  black  water-beetle  with  golden  legs,  hur- 
riedly scuttling  over  the  sea.  Following  the  course  of  the 
Hamburg-bound  liners,  even  if  one  failed  to  make  connec- 
tion with  one's  accredited  pilot,  it  would  not  be  long  before 
one  picked  up  Borkum  Riff  Lightship  and  in  due  course, 
spiring  silver  grey  against  the  pink-and-golden  sunrise — the 
twin  towers  of  Nordeich  Wireless — marking  the  jotirney's 
end. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE    BROWN    SATCHEL 

The  journey's  end.  A  gust,  tearing  the  mist  that  veiled 
the  livid  waters,  showed  the  shadowy  shapes  of  a  procession 
of  battleships,  steaming  southwards  in  single  line. 

You  see  the  German  assailed  by  the  wind,  now  hard  on 
the  aeroplane's  port  beam,  craning  over,  counting  the 
speedlights  passing  diagonally  underneath.  Eight  steel 
Leviathans,  stabbing  bright  points  of  electric  light  through 
fog  and  funnel-smoke,  with  an  effect  of  diamonds  seen 
against  a  background  of  dull  grey  plush. 

Eight  rushing,  neutral-tinted  shapes — conveying  a  for- 
midable impression  of  grim  power,  and  force,  and  ruthless- 
ness.  A  Squadron  of  Battle  Cruisers  of  the  British  Home 
Fleet,  new  from  the  brine  of  Lerwick  Waters,  or  the  fierce 
green  surges  of  Scapa  Flow.  Bound  for  Harwich  Roads  or 
Sheerness,  or  the  Solent,  to  figure  in  the  huge  pageant  of 
steel  and  steam,  electricity,  and  man-power  that  would  be 
called  the  King's  Review. 

What  a  chance,  supposing  Der  Tag  were  come  already,  for 
the  delivery  of  a  consignment  of  bombs !  It  warmed  like 
a  draught  of  wine,  to  think  of  the  devastating  effect  of  a 
couple  of  such  German  love-gifts,  exploded  in  the  bowels  of 
one  of  those  steel  monsters,  packed  with  complex  machinery, 
high  explosives,  and  inflammable  oil.  True,  there  might 
be  a  reverse  to  the  medal,  damping  even  to  the  spirits  of  a 
Superman.  Wireless  signals  would  go  forth  at  the  order 
of  one  amongst  a  Uttle  knot  of  dark  figvires  on  the  forebridge 
of  the  Flagship,  warning  each  of  those  grey  monsters  of  its 
danger.  Not  an  armoured  cruiser  scouting  for  them  on  the 
horizon,  not  one  of  all  the  torpedo-boat  destroyers  in  their 

259 


26o  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

vicinity,  not  a  submarine  nosing  in  the  thick  cold  darkness 
below  the  restless  white  crests,  but  would  join  in  the  man- 
hunt that  must  ensue. 

How  the  dusk  would  spring  alive  with  the  eyes  of  foes, 
and  long  rays  of  searchlight  would  go  probing,  and  the 
mobile  noses  of  guns  great  and  lesser  would  be  thrust  from 
their  hoods  of  proof-armour,  sniffing  bloodthirstily  for  the 
enemy  up  in  the  sky.  While  from  the  Flagship's  mothering 
side,  a  Navy  seaplane,  armed  with  a  Vickers'  machine-gun, 
might  swing  out  and  plop  upon  the  water,  rise  from  the 
white  snarl  of  waves  with  a  vicious  scream  of  her  propeller, 
and,  keen  as  a  gull-hunting  sea-hawk,  launch  herself  in 
chase. 

Pfui  I  The  thought  made  one  sick  at  the  stomach.  Cold, 
isolation,  and  darkness  tried  a  man,  no  matter  how  coura- 
geous. Buffeted  by  the  bitter  wind,  aching  and  stiff  with 
weariness,  lonely  with  the  loneliness  of  some  small  bird 
of  the  migratory  order,  outstripped  by  its  companions  on 
the  wild  journey  over  the  North  Sea,  the  Kaiser's  messenger 
drew  energy  and  cheer  from  the  conviction  that  the  dis- 
patches entrusted  to  him  by  Imperial  favour  were  such  as 
would  hasten  the  arrival  of  The  Day. 

The  Day,  to  which  all  good  German  officers  devoted  the 
second  toast  on  Mess  nights.  When  the  Black  Eagle  would 
swoop,  and  the  nodding  witch-hag  Britannia  would  awaken 
from  her  whisky-dreams  of  W^orld-Dominion  to  find  her 
armour  obsolete,  her  sword  rusted  in  its  scabbard,  the 
trident  of  Sea  Power  stolen  from  her  hand. 

Hurrah !  for  The  Day  when  the  programme  arranged  by 
the  All  Highest  War  Lord  and  his  War  Chiefs  should  be 
carried  out  in  the  complete  overthrow  of  British  Supremacy, 
the  seizure  and  domination  of  British  territory,  the  solution 
of  the  Great  German  Race  Problem,  in  the  transformation 
of  the  United  Kingdom  into  a  German  dependency, — the 
annexation  of  India  and  the  British  Colonies — and  the 
forcible  Teutonisation  of  the  hated  race. 


The  Brown  Satchel  261 

Aha!  Much  to  be  locked  in  an  Imperial  messenger's 
letter-bag,  thought  von  Herrnung,  greedily.  What  in  the 
way  of  guerdon  might  not  be  lavished  by  a  gratified  All 
Highest  upon  the  danger-braving  and  to-duty-fearlessly- 
devoted  Flying  Officer  who  should  accomphsh  the  Secret 
Mission,  and  lay  the  brown  satchel  at  the  Imperial  feet. 

Probably  the  Second — tchah! — the  First  Class  of  the 
Iron  Cross — with  military  promotion,  and  a  handsome  sum 
in  hard  cash.  Laudatory  articles  in  the  State-inspired 
Press  organs  and  Service  Gazettes  presently.  Meanwhile, 
was  it  fitting  that  the  future  of  von  Herrnung  should  lie, 
not  upon  the  knees  of  the  gods,  but  on  the  lap  of  a  little, 
seasick  English  boy? 

True,  the  brown  satchel  was  firmly  strapped  to  the  boy, 
now  lying  in  an  attitude  of  complete  exhaustion,  with  one 
arm  thrown  over  the  gunwale,  and  his  small  round  head 
feebly  nodding  to  and  fro.  The  child  knew  nothing  of 
the  Imperial  dispatches.  And  yet — one  would  have  been 
wiser  to  keep  the  bag  about  one,  in  spite  of  the  danger  of 
fouling  the  controls. 

It  will  be  gathered  that  a  chilly  premonition  of  imminent 
disaster  crawled  in  the  veins  of  the  Kaiser's  messenger. 
Hunger  and  fatigue  were  spurring  von  Herrnung  to  imagina- 
tiveness unworthy  of  a  Superman. 

Now  he  knew  his  frail  winged  craft  beset  by  cunning, 
treacherous  enemies;  the  invisible  air  that  cradled  and 
supported  her,  only  waiting  to  destroy.  Other  elemental 
forces.  Gale,  Lightning,  Hail,  Waterspout — in  collusion  to 
bring  about  her  swift  and  speedy  ruin.  The  Sea,  no  less 
than  these,  was  an  implacable  adversary,  reaching  up 
innumerable  greedy  hands  to  drag  her  down  and  drown. 
The  hawk-hoverer  would  have  been  a  help  at  this  juncture 
if  one  had  had  some  previous  experience  in  the  use  of  it. 
As  things  were,  it  was  wiser  to  leave  the  Englishman's 
invention  alone.  A  labouring  beat  admonished  the  man's 
quick  ear  of  impending  engine-trouble.     Ah,  if  the  motor, 


262  That  Which  Hath  Wings 


to' 


that  was  the  living  heart  in  the  aeroplane,  should  break 
down  at  this  juncture,  or  the  human  intelligence  perched 
behind  the  roaring  tractor  falter,  the  game  was  up.  Kaput 
for  von  Herrnung,  he  very  well  knew. 

As  though  the  very  fear  had  brought  on  the  catastrophe, 
the  revolutions  dropped.  Below  looo,  said  the  indicator's 
trembling  finger,  and  there  was  a  miss.  The  bang ! — bang ! 
of  a  back-fire  followed.  If  one  had  believed  in  God,  now, 
this  would  have  been  the  time  to  pray  to  Him. 

But  now  the  aviator's  keen  eye,  peering  downwards 
through  Sherbrand's  binoculars,  picked  up  something  that 
had  emerged  with  a  sudden  yeasty  swirl  among  the  white- 
crested  waves.  No  handsomer  nor  bigger  than  an  under- 
sized steam-trawler,  the  casual  observer  might  as  such  have 
accepted  her.  But  a  moment  more,  and  fore  and  aft  of  the 
stocky  little  pseudo-steamer,  stretched  the  long  snaky, 
whitey-brown  hull  of  a  submarine. 

U-i8,  on  observation-service  off  Spurn  Head,  or  a  Brit- 
isher? An  Evans  signalling-pistol,  loaded,  and  with  a 
supply  of  spare  rockets,  was  fixed  in  a  cleat  beside  the 
instrument-board,  within  reach  of  the  pilot's  hand.  The 
altimeter,  illuminated  by  the  electric  bulb,  gave  an  altitude 
of  six  hundred,  as  von  Herrnung  snatched  the  pistol,  and 
fired,  aiming  towards  the  sky. 

The  shot  was  followed  by  a  second  detonation,  and  a  bril- 
liant crimson  light  illuminated  the  grey  welter,  throwing  up 
orange  balls  of  fire  as  it  ascended,  to  burst  in  showers  of 
incandescent  sparks.  Switching  off,  von  Herrnung  strained 
both  ears  and  eyes  for  an  answer  to  his  signal.  With  the 
cessation  of  the  motor  the  diapason  of  the  North  Sea  rolled 
upwards  through  the  twilight  with  a  threatening  of  storm. 
As  the  weather-cone  had  presaged,  a  gale  was  coming.  It 
blew  strongly  from  the  north-west.  The  engine  back-fired 
again,  and  von  Herrnung  swore  at  it,  trying  to  make  out 
the  nationality  of  the  submarine  running  on  the  surface  six 
hundred  feet  below.     There  were  half-a-dozen  tallish  figures 


The  Brown  Satchel  263 

on  the  narrow  man-railed  catwalk  running  along  her  hull 
forward,  and  one  upon  the  screened-in  platform  of  her 
humpy  conning-tower. 

Then  the  blue-white  ray  of  a  searchlight  leaped  forth 
illuminating  her  bows  and  forward  torpedo-tubes — reveal- 
ing the  long  neutral-coloured  hull  with  the  Wireless  mast 
raised  for  use  and  soapy  seas  hissing  off  the  armour-plate. 
A  backwash  of  brilliance  picked  out  the  black-white-and- 
red  Jack  of  Germany,  fluttering  from  a  short  pole-mast 
sternwards.  Signal-lights  of  white  and  two  colours  broke 
out  upon  another  slender  mast  aft  of  her  conning-tower, 
and  winked  and  jabbered.    U-i8  was  in  touch  with  her  man. 

It  was  quite  time,  for  the  Bird's  engine  hiccupped  mere 
and  more  disastrously,  and  her  pilot's  frozen  hands  could 
only  guess  the  steering-wheel.  He  grunted  relief.  Sapper- 
lot  !  One's  star  had  not  deserted  one.  Once  more  the 
Prussian  Field-Flying  Service  would,  with  reason,  quote 
von  Hcrrnung's  hellish  good-luck. 

Meanwhile  the  submarine's  three  lights  chattered  volubly 
in  German  Navy  Code.  Do  Not  Attempt  Make  Harbour. 
Heavy  Weather  Coming.  Original  Orders  Cancelled. 
Heave  To.  Will  Stand  By  To  Take  You  Aboard.  To 
which  von  Herrnung,  keeping  pace  with  U-i8,  replied  with 
long  and  short  flashes  of  an  electric  signalling-tcrch.  Under- 
stood! What  Is  the  Sea  Like?  Keep  Off  and  On.  Am 
Coming  Down! 

And  he  came  forthwith.  The  Commander  of  U-i8, 
standing  on  the  little  platform  over  which  furious  seas  were 
slashing,  watched  him  critically  through  apair  of  Zeiss  binoc- 
ulars. You,  too,  are  asked  to  see  him;  pulling  round  the 
Bird's  head  into  the  teeth  of  the  nor' wester;  shutting  off  her 
hiccupping  engine,  implacably  thrusting  her  nose  seawards, 
and  diving  with  a  splendid  swoop  into  the  widening  paths 
of  spirals  that  ended  amidst  the  angry  surges  below. 

Hitting  the  North  Sea  with  so  shattering  a  slap  that  the 
Bird's   landing-carriage    crumpled   and   buckled,    and   the 


264  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

frail  spars  of  her  wings  crunched  like  the  bones  of  a  small 
bird  in  the  jaws  of  a  hungry  cat. 

A  fierce  green  sea  leaped,  towered,  and  broke,  dumping  a 
ton  of  water  on  von  Herrnung,  and  knocking  the  breath  out 
of  the  man.  He  tore  open  the  safety-belt  as  consciousness 
left  him,  and  recovered  in  the  warm  benzine-flavoured 
stuffiness  of  the  officer's  cabin  aboard  the  U-i8,  to  the 
stinging  of  schnapps  in  his  mouth  and  gullet,  and  the  cheer 
of  German  words  in  his  ear. 

"  Hey  now,  hey  now,  we  are  coming  about.  That  is  well ! 
Drink  another  draught,  comrade !  You  have  had  a  hellishly 
narrow  squeak.  Another  time,  when  flying  oversea  with 
dispatches,  start  early,  pick  your  weather,  and  ship  a  life- 
belt, if  you  are  wise ! " 

Thus  Lieutenant  Commander  Luttha  of  Undersea-boat 
No.  i8.  You  see  him  as  a  spare,  weather-bitten,  black- 
bearded  officer  in  a  full  panoply  of  yellow  oilies,  and  a  sou'- 
wester shading  little  eyes,  sharp  as  lancet-points  and  now 
twinkling  with  his  bit  of  fun. 

But  the  word  "dispatches,"  coupled  with  the  jest  about 
the  life-belt,  volted  through  von  Herrnung  Hke  the  discharge 
from  an  electric  battery.  He  gulped  and  choked,  collecting 
enough  tinned  air  to  talk  with,  and  at  last  got  out : 

"The  boy — the  boy,  with  the  satchel!  Where  is  he,  in 
the  devil's  name?" 

Thus  adjured  the  Commander  answered  pithily : 

"If  you  mean  the  half-drowned  little  English  rat  Petty 
Officer  Stoll  found  washing  about  in  the  bows  of  your  avia- 
tik,  he's  alive.     Don't  worry  about  that!" 

Through  the  churning  foam  upon  his  lips,  von  Herrnung 
spluttered  furiously: 

"  Himmelkreiizbombenelement!  What  is  the  verdammt 
boy  to  me?  It  is  the  satchel  that  was  strapped  about  the 
boy's  middle  I  am  asking  for — the  Emperor's — Herr  Gott ! 
— I  shall  go  mad!" 

He  staggered  to  his  feet,  hitting  his  head  a  stunning  crack 


The  Brown  Satchel  265 

against  the  low  white  painted  overdeck.  The  incautious 
reference  to  the  Emperor  electrified  those  who  heard, 
squatting  on  the  little  folding  bunks,  or  kneeling  on  the 
palpitating  deck  of  the  little  officer's  cabin,  into  desperate 
activity.  Von  Herrnung  found  himself  boosted  up  a  ladder 
and  through  a  manhole,  guided  along  a  narrow  slippery 
catwalk,  washed  by  the  surges  of  the  North  Sea,  to  where  a 
collapsible  boat  was  being  emptied  of  a  lot  of  shipped  salt 
water,  and  the  battered  wreck  of  the  Bird  of  War,  lashed  to 
the  U-i8's  forward  man-rail,  was  waiting  the  Commander's 
order  to  be  finally  abandoned  to  her  fate. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


NUMBER  EIGHTEEN 


They  launched  the  collapsible,  and  ransacked  every 
cranny  of  the  Bird's  waterlogged  fuselage.  Not  the  ghost 
of  a  brown  leather  satchel  rewarded  their  feverish  search. 
In  the  forward  cockpit  the  belt  swung  loose,  the  patent 
fastening  had  been  opened  by  pulling  the  pin  out.  Clearly 
the  boy  had  released  himself  when  the  Bird  hit  the  sea. 

"Let  us  go  look  at  this  boy!"  suggested  the  Commander, 
on  receiving  the  news  that  the  Kind  had  breathed,  and 
vomited  sea-water.  Luttha  promptly  led  the  way  to  the 
men's  cabin,  where  Petty  Officer  Stoll  and  an  earringed  first- 
class  seaman  were  working  over  a  little  limp  naked  body, 
outspread  on  the  jiggetting  deck-plates,  in  the  raucous 
glare  of  the  electric  light. 

Bawne  was  questioned,  but  nothing  could  be  got  out  of 
him  just  then,  except  North  Sea,  so  they  wrapped  him 
in  a  blue  Navy  blanket,  and  left  him  in  charge  of  Petty 
Officer  Stoll. 

"This  is  hellishly  unfortunate,  you  must  know.  Count," 
said  the  Commander,  alone  with  von  Herrnung  in  the  vi- 
brating steel  box  over  the  upper  accumulators,  called  the 
officers'  cabin,  and  separated  from  the  men's  quarters  by  a 
paper-thin  sliding  bulkhead  of  painted  steel.  You  are 
asked  to  consider  it  furnished  with  seven  narrow  folding 
bunks,  a  trestle-table  about  as  wide  and  long  as  a  coffin-lid, 
some  folding  chairs,  a  marvellous  array  of  charts  on  spring- 
rollers,  fixed  against  the  steel  walls,  a  row  of  wooden  lock- 
ers, a  chronometer  and  auxiliary  gyro-compass,  several 
cylinders  of  oxy lithe  for  respiratory  emergencies,  an  electric 
stove  of  small  size,  a  log-book  and  writing  materials,  a  shelf 

266 


Number  Eighteen  267 

of  German  literature,  chiefly  nautical  reference-books;  sets 
of  dominoes,  a  violin  and  a  cornet,  speaking-tubes  and  a 
telephone,  a  gramophone  and  a  giant  cuspidor. 

Von  Herrnung,  having  swapped  his  water-logged  flying- 
kit  and  soaked  underclothes  for  dry  flannels  lent  by  the 
Second-in-Command,  topped  off  with  a  pair  of  the  Com- 
mander's spare  trousers,  and  a  guernsey  frock  belonging  to 
the  biggest  man  on  board.  You  can  see  him  supplementing 
the  shortness  of  the  trousers  with  a  pair  of  long  sea-boots : 
thrusting  his  huge  arms  into  the  guernsey,  beginning  already 
to  be  superior  to  his  rescuers  upon  the  strength  of  his  family 
rank  and  wealth  and  his  flying-record,  his  bulk  and  hand- 
someness, and  his  magpie  pearl.  He  was  of  the  Prussian 
top-dog  breed  and  let  others  know  it,  even  whilst  smarting 
under  his  loss.  That  he  felt  it  was  shown  by  the  livid  pallor 
testifying  to  mental  disquiet  and  physical  exhaustion.  But 
he  judged  it  wisest  to  bluff,  and  did. 

"The  cursed  machine  would  have  drowned  me  if  you  had 
not  arrived  in  the  nick  of  time,"  he  said  suggestively,  smil- 
ing under  the  red  moustache  that  hung  uncurled  over  his 
full  sensual  lips:  "Suppose  you  say  you  found  me  swim- 
ming in  the  water — the  aeroplane  having  foundered — it  is 
merely  rewording  a  report!" 

"So  many  thanks!"  .  .  .  returned  the  Commander, 
chewing  hard  at  an  unlighted  cigar,  sending  a  jet  of  saliva 
into  the  cuspidor,  and  smiling  in  a  wry  and  dubious  fashion. 
"But  when  I  said  things  were  hellishly  unfortunate,  I 
meant  unfortunate  for  you!" 

He  moved  to  the  green  baize-covered  plank  that  served  as 
a  cabin  table,  and  took  from  a  weighted  document-file  a 
pencilled  paper-slip. 

"As  far  as  they  concern  you  I  will  read  you  them  as  taken 
down  by  our  Wireless  operator.  '  To  Undersea-boat  No.  i8, 
on  observation-duty  off  Spurn  Head.  Stand  by  to  get  in 
touch  with,  act  pilot,  and  render  aid  if  necessary  to  German 
Imperial  Secret  Service  Messenger,  crossing  to  Nordeich  in 


268  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

British  aeroplane.'  The  message  comes  from  the  German 
Embassy  in  London  and  the  sender  is  Grand  Admiral  Prinz 
Heinrich.  I  have  carried  out  my  instructions  to  the  letter. 
There  is  only  one  man  going  to  be  broken  over  this  affair!" 

Von  Herrnung  knew  who  the  man  was.  .The  Commander 
chewed  some  more  of  his  cigar,  picked  his  oozing  yellow  oil- 
skins off  the  deck,  thrust  himself  into  them,  crowned  himself 
with  his  sou'wester,  and  said,  taking  a  farewell  shot  at  the 
cuspidor: 

"And  to  brew  more  thunder-beer  for  you  is  not  my  desire ! 
I  am  sorry  for  you,  bei  Gott !  But  to  make  game  of  those 
who  command  me  is  not  the  purpose  for  which  I  am  com- 
missioned, Herr  Count.  Nor  have  I  any  experience  in 
doctoring  reports.  I  rate  only  as  Lieutenant  in  the  Im- 
perial German  Navy — a  man  born  of  plain  people — with- 
out fortune  or  even  von  before  my  family  name ! " 

Von  Herrnung  sensed  that  he  had  bitterly  offended  the 
only  human  being  who  could  help  him.  He  apologised  sub- 
serviently, and  catching  at  the  straw  afforded  him  by  the 
Commander's  admission  of  poverty,  offered  him  the  pick- 
ings of  the  wrecked  aeroplane. 

"  For  her  instruments  and  signalling  outfit — the  seats  and 
vacuum  flasks  even — are  well  worth  the  having,  and  her 

engine  and  tractor  will  sell  for "  he  named  the  sum  in 

marks.  "There  is  a  patent  stabiliser  under  her  belly  that  I 
reserve  for  Majesty — the  French  have  bought  it  or  think 
they  have!" 

The  speaker  rubbed  his  hands.  The  hoverer  might  yet 
prove  a  sop  for  the  All  Highest.  Imperial  displeasure  thus 
averted,  all  would  go  well.  He  added,  feeling  that  he  might 
actually  afford  the  luxury  of  grumbling : 

"As  for  me,  I  am  what  the  English  call  'fed  up'  with 
special  missions.  Conceive  it.  I  am  at  a  Hendon  Flying 
School, — chatting  with  a  handsome  Englishwoman  who  has 
taken  me  for  her  lover — as  I  am  waiting  to  get  an  inkling  of 
the  sort  of  invention  the  French  War  Ministry  think  worth 


Number  Eighteen  269 

buying  for  use  in  their  Service  Aeronautique.  I  am  sum- 
moned by  a  groom  of  our  Embassy  to  speak  to  some  Ex- 
cellencies— I  follow  and  find  myself  clicking  my  heels  before 
Prinz  Heinrich,  von  Moltke,  and  Krupp  von  Bohlen  in  an 
Embassy  auto-car — to  be  sent  off  at  a  moment's  notice  in 
a  little  cranky  devil  of  an  English  monoplane — with  secret 
dispatches  for  the  All  Highest — on  a  journey  over  the 
North  Sea.  With  the  barometer  falling  and  the  hour  past 
five  meridian.  That's  my  luck!"  The  speaker  paused  for 
breath. 

Luttha  said,  pulling  his  black  beard  through  his  fingers 
with  a  crisp  sound,  a  trick  of  his  when  in  meditation: 

"There  was  no  time  to  lose.  And  you  have  a  wonderful 
record  for  long-distance  flying.  And  luck  it  was! — if  you 
had  been  of  my  mind.  Tell  me,  did  not  they  give  you  plain 
instructions?" 

"Do  'they'  ever  speak  plainly?"  von  Herrnung  scoffed; 
and  Luttha  answered  calmly: 

"Yes,  to  an  ordinary  man,  who  does  not  understand 
obscure  language,  they  would  have  said:  'Lieutenant  Com- 
mander Luttha,  here  is  a  brown  leather  satchel,  with  some- 
thing inside  it  belonging  to  the  Emperor.  You  will  convey 
the  satchel  to  Nordeich  and  deliver  it  to  His  Majesty's 
hands.  And  from  the  moment  I  entrust  it  to  yours,  it  shall 
be  close  as  your  very  skin  to  you.  If  you  meet  Death  upon 
your  errand,  die  with  it  next  your  heart!' " 

The  speaker  added  with  a  wounding  accent  of  irony: 

"Perhaps  that  marks  the  difference  between  a  plebeian 
and  a  nobleman !  /  would  have  lashed  it  to  my  body,  under 
my  clothing.  You  strapped  it  about  the  boy '  By  the  way, 
what  is  the  boy?" 

"The  boy!  .  .  .  Nothing!  ...  A  piece  of  ballast, 
merely!" 

Von  Herrnung,  warmed  by  dry  clothes  and  exhibitions  of 
schnapps,  was  fast  recovering  his  characteristic  arrogance. 
He  added,  with  a  shrug  and  a  wave  of  the  hand : 


270  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"As  for  the  lost  satchel,  it  may  well  be  that  duplicates  of 
the  dispatches  contained  in  it  have  been  sent  to  the  Em- 
peror by  another  messenger.  That  is  the  usual  method, 
perhaps  you  are  not  aware?" 

"Duplicates  exist,  but  in  only  one  place  on  earth  will  you 
find  them,  and  that  place  is  the  London  War  Office!" 

The  Commander  pitched  his  cigar-butt  into  the  cuspidor, 
snapped  the  three  stud-clips  that  secured  his  yellow  oilskin 
storm-coat,  and  dug  his  piercing  little  eyes  into  von  Herr- 
nung's  as  he  asked: 

"Have  you  never  heard  of  the  War-engine  of  Robert 
Foulis,  the  Scottish  sea-captain  who  first  suggested  to  the 
British  the  use  of  steam  as  applied  to  battle-ships,  and 
invented  the  screw-propeller  and  the  big  devil  knows  how 
many  other  things  besides  the  mysterious,  secret  weapon 
that  Great  Britain  has  kept  hidden  up  her  sleeve  a  hundred 
and  twenty-six  years!  It  was  offered  by  Foulis,  then  Earl 
of  Clanronald,  in  1812,  to  the  British  Government,  and  it 
frightened  people  like  the  drunken  Regent  and  the  Duke  of 
York  and  Lord  Mulgrave  into  refusing  it.  It  was  offered 
again  to  their  War  Office  at  the  time  of  their  Crimean  War, 
— taken  into  consideration  by  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  and 
again  ejected, — because — Grosse  Gott ! — it  was  too  inhuman! 
As  though  a  weapon  that  could  end  a  War  in  a  twinkling  by 
sheer  deadly  effectiveness  could  be  anything  but  a  boon  to 
mankind.  Pfui  !  Such  hypocrisy  makes  me  vomit  worse 
than  thirty  hours  of  submergence.  Not  because  of  its 
inhumanity  has  Britain  stored  up  the  old  man's  war-engine. 
Out  of  diplomacy,  to  brutalise  the  great  Germanic  nation 
into  subservience  under  the  rod  of  Fear!" 

Luttha  and  von  Herrnung,  otherwise  antagonistic,  were 
alike  in  their  rabid  hatred  of  Great  Britain.  Luttha  had 
talked  himself  plum-coloured  and  hoarse  by  now,  but  he 
went  on,  pounding  the  air  with  a  knotty,  clenched  fist : 

"Thus  it  was  well  done  on  the  part  of  the  Kaiser's  secret 
agents  to  steal  Clanronald's  War  Plan,  on  the  brink  of  The 


Number  Eifjhteen  271 


'&) 


Day  to  which  we  have  drunk  so  long!  Not  the  duplicates 
buried  in  the  Whitehall  strong-vaults,  see  you! — but  the 
originals  from  the  muniment-room  of  the  Welsh  castle,  the 
country-seat  of  the  present  Earl.  Less  than  an  hour  after 
you  took  flight  from  Hendon,  London  was  alive  and  buzzing 
with  the  tale!  .  .  .  How  do  I  know?  .  .  .  Does  not  a 
man  know  everything  with  Wireless?  And  you,  with  no 
inkling  that  you  carried  for  Germany — Victory  in  the 
World- War  that  is  coming — you  who  have  lost  Clanronald's 
secret,  are  a  ruined  man,  hei  Gott!" 

He   added,    as   von   Herrnung  broke  out    cursing    and 
raving : 

"As  I  have  said,  I  pity  you! — though  you  have  tried  to 
bribe  me! — but  it  will  not  do  to  talk  of  suicide,  for  I  shall 
prevent  that!  Your  cartridges  are  wetted — your  revolver 
will  not  serve  you.  And  you  will  not  get  a  chance  to  drown 
yourself,  for  I  am  going  to  submerge.  My  fellows  have  got 
the  flying-motor  out  of  the  stirrups  and  stowed  it  away, 
with  the  auto-hoverer  and  the  other  things  for  the  Emperor, 
whose  property  they  are!  Then  we  run,  only  periscopes 
showing,  for  the  Gat  of  Norderney.  There  is  a  clear- 
dredged  channel  to  Nordeich  Harbour,  navigable  in  any 
tide.  You  have  to  account  there  to  the  All  Highest  for  the 
satchel,  or  I,  bei  Gott !  must  account  to  him  for  it  and  you! " 
And  Luttha  slid  back  the  steel  door,  passed  through  the 
narrow  gangway  and  shot  up  the  narrow  steel  ladder  to 
attend  to  affairs  on  deck.  Two  of  his  subordinates  in- 
stantly replaced  him.  On  no  account  was  von  Herrnung, 
the  living  proof  of  the  Commander's  fidelity  to  his  instruc- 
tions, to  be  left  alone,  you  understand. 

One  would  have  said  the  Superman  believed  in  God,  he 
blasphemed  Him  so  industriously.  When  he  was  quite 
spent  and  voiceless,  the  lieutenants  offered  him  practical 
sympathy  in  the  shape  of  gingerbread  and  lager  beer.  He 
accepted  the  beer,  and  sat  on  one  of  the  sofas  drinking  it 
and  brooding  lividly,  while  Undersea-boat  No.   i8,  with 


272  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

hermetically-sealed  hatches,  folded  down  her  signal  and 
Wireless  masts,  shut  off  her  2000  h.p.  Diesel  oil  engines, 
sucked  water  into  her  ballast-tanks,  and  with  only  her 
periscopes  showing  above  the  surface,  ran  under  her  electric- 
motor  power  for  Norderney  Gat  and  Nordeich  quay. 

Behind  her  as  she  sped,  a  red  stain  upon  the  angry  waters 
gave  back  the  last  rays  of  stormy  sunset,  smouldering  out 
behind  bars  of  drift-wrack,  beyond  the  bleak  east-country 
beaches  and  the  long  blue-black,  desolate  worlds. 

Von  Herrnung's  private,  personal  sun  was  setting' some- 
what after  the  same  fashion,  amidst  sable  clouds  of  Imperial 
wrath.  It  was  to  sink  below  the  horizon  in  deepest  dis- 
favour, rise  again  in  The  Day's  gory  dawning,  and  fall,  its 
evil  fires  quenched  in  a  drenching  rain  of  blood. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

HUE  AND  CRY 

Even  as  petrol  and  air  mingled  in  the  Bird's  cylinders, 
and  Davis  rotated  the  tractor  and  nimbly  leaped  out  of  the 
way  of  sudden  death,  the  buff  broadsheets  of  the  Evening 
Wire  edged  the  kerbs  of  Fleet  Street  and  ran  up  Kingsway 
to  High  Holborn.  And  from  Ludgate  Hill  to  Charing  Cross, 
Pall  Mall,  and  Piccadilly  Circus,  the  raucous  voices  of  news- 
boys yelled  through  a  pelting  hail  of  pence : 

AMAZING  THEFT  OF  A  FAMILY  SECRET. 

STOLEN    FROM    GWYLL    CASTLE 

,  THE  CLANRONALD  WAR-PLAN. 

AN  ECHO  OF  CRIMEAN  DAYS. 

THIEF  KNOWN.       POLICE  SANGUINE. 

"common    cracksman's    ENTERPRISE    OR    DIPLOMATIC 

STROKE?" 

Strings  of  news-carts  laden  with  bundles  of  papers  were 
rattling  east,  north,  south,  and  west.  Trains  were  taking 
in  the  story  by  bales  of  thousands  and  disgorging  it  at  every 
stoppage,  as  Von  Herrnung  opened  the  throttle,  and  the 
Bird  raced  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  bumping  like  a  taxi  going 
over  a  bad  road,  then  rose  into  the  air,  as  gracefully  as  a 
mallard,  and  launched  upon  the  first  wide  spirals  of  the 
aerial  ascent. 

The  small  audience  interested  in  the  aeroplane,  her  freight, 
and  her  behaviour,  watched  her  as  she  dwindled  in  the  sight 
and  died  upon  the  ear.  The  spectators  in  the  enclosure  had 
18  273 


274  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

departed  in  dribbles,  the  last  three-seater  air-bus  had 
rounded  the  aerodrome,  landed  and  deposited  the  last 
passengers.  Two  or  three  over-enthusiastic  students  lin- 
gered, but  the  rest  had  shed  their  grimy  overalls  and  be- 
taken themselves  home. 

The  mellow  light  of  late  afternoon  lay  sweetly  on  the  wide 
expanse  of  treeless  greensward  and  on  the  woods  that  tufted 
the  horizon-line.  Rooks  and  starlings  were  wheeling  over 
distant  tree-clumps,  the  bands  no  longer  brayed  or  tootled, 
the  mechanics  were  leaving  the  sheds  and  hangars,  the 
waitresses  were  hastening  to  other  employments,  such  as 
pro  gramme- vending  at  suburban  music-halls  and  picture- 
theatres,  the  selling  of  stale  houtonnieres  about  the  entrances 
of  restaurants,  the  serving  of  drinks  and  suppers  at  night- 
clubs and  so  on. 

On  the  verge  of  the  white-marked  oval  from  which 
the  Bird  had  taken  her  departure,  Saxham  was  stand- 
ing with  Patrine.  Their  faces  were  lifted  to  the  sky  as 
they  talked  together,  and  Sherbrand's  eyes  were  irresist- 
ibly drawn  to  them,  so  heroic  in  mould,  and  so  curiously 
alike. 

There  was  a  puzzled  line  between  the  Instructor's  thick, 
fair  eyebrows.  He  was  ready  to  swear  it  was  the  same  girl. 
But  the  face  that  had  looked  into  his  that  night  in  Paris  was 
somehow  softer,  younger.  ...  It  was  not  only  the  alteration 
in  the  colour  of  the  hair.  ...  If  you  had  taken  the  big, 
hearty,  smiling  young  woman  of  the  Milles  Plaisirs,  and 
dipped  her  into  a  vat  of  hydrogen  peroxide,  so  that  not 
only  her  hair  but  her  whole  body  had  been  bleached,  you 
would  not  have  accomplished  such  a  transformation — unless 
the  chemical  had  possessed  the  power  to  change  the  colour 
of  her  mind  and  soul. 

The  girl  of  the  Milles  Plaisirs  had  looked  at  you  frankly, 
and  spoken  to  you  like  a  pal.  In  that  atmosphere  of  sexual 
excitement,  amongst  those  crowds  of  men  and  women, 
flushed  with  meat  and  wine  and  the  desire  of  sensual  plea- 


Hue  and  Cry  275 

sure,  she  had  appealed  to  Sherbrand  like  a  heather-scented 
breeze  from  the  North. 

Beautiful  and  big  and  sisterly,  she  had  seemed  to  him 
who  had  no  sisters.  He  had  often  wondered  how  she 
came  to  be  in  that  place.  But  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  to  lump  her  with  the  ordinary  pleasure-seeker.  He  had 
read — more  correctly  than  von  Herrnung,  who  believed  her 
from  the  first  to  have  bitten  deep  into  the  Fruit  of  Know- 
ledge— Purity  if  not  ignorance,  in  her  wide  curving  smile, 
and  honesty  in  her  clear  unshadowed  eyes. 

What  eyes  they  were,  long,  brilliant,  blackly-lashed, 
browny-green  as  agate.  What  a  wonderful  voice  came  out  of 
the  depths  of  her  splendid  chest.  The  arch  of  her  breastbone 
reminded  you  of  a  violoncello.  How  splendidly  her  head 
was  set  upon  its  column  of  warm,  living  ivory!  Her  firm 
round  chin  had  a  dint  in  it  that  the  old  Greek  sculptor  had 
failed  to  bestow  upon  the  glorious  Venus  de  Melos,  the  Lady 
of  the  Isle  of  Music.  Everything  about  her  was  planned 
on  the  scale  of  magnificence.  Six  feet  tall,  she  walked  the 
earth  like  a  goddess,  or  as  women  must  have  walked  when 
the  Sons  of  Light  mated  with  the  daughters  of  men. 

Thus  Sherbrand,  meditating  on  his  Fate  to  be,  while 
Destiny  limped  towards  him  in  the  person  of  an  undersized 
telegraph-clerk  whose  complexion,  previously  pallid,  had 
deteriorated  to  dirty  green.  He  began,  extending  a  shaky 
hand,  from  which  dangled  a  slip  of  limp  paper: 

"For  you,  sir.  Rumball  'adn't  got  a  picklock  among  his 
tools,  so  'e  burst  in  the  door  with  a  No.  lo  spanner.  They 
rung  us  up  about  twenty  times  while  he  was  at  the  job. 
And  the  message  is  important,  sir!" 

"  I'll  see !     Thank  you,  Burgin ! ' ' 

Sherbrand  took  the  telegram  from  the  jerky  hand  and 
read: 

"  Your  —  German  —  acquaintance  —  suspected  —  agent  — 
robbery  —  documents  —  national  —  importance.  At  —  all — 
costs  —  keep  —  him  —  until  —  /  —  come.  " 


276  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

The  Chief's  name  at  the  end  was  the  nail  that  cHnched  the 
thing.  But  the  cry  of  Macrombie's  undersized  assistant 
was  the  hammer-blow  that  drove  the  nail  to  the  quick.  His 
sharp  eye,  following  the  climbing  aeroplane,  had  seen  her 
flatten  and  swing  about  and  leap  forwards,  exactly  as  the 
carrier-pigeon  strikes  out  its  line  of  flight  for  home. 

"My  Gawd,  "  he  yelped  out.  "See  there!  Blimy,  if  the 
— 's  not  done  us!  Bunked  it  by  air  to  Kaiserland  while  I 
was  spellin'  out  the  screed.  Gone  with  the  Bird — the  Bird 
and  the  'overing  gear.     My  Gawd!     Wot's  to  be  done?" 

"Shut  your  head  on  what  you  know!"  said  Sherbrand's 
voice  in  the  pale  clerk's  ear  as  Sherbrand's  hand  fell  un- 
gently  on  his  shoulder.  "You've  dqne  your  best!  It's  not 
your  fault  if  luck  was  on  the  other  side !  But — ' '  His  eyes 
went  to  the  Doctor's  great  figure  standing  beside  the  tall 
white  shape  with  the  hat  of  twinkling  silver.  "But  the 
boy!"  A  sickness  swirled  up  in  him  and  a  dizziness  over- 
topped it.  He  caught  at  and  gripped  the  clerk's  thin 
shoulder  to  keep  himself  upright.  "My  God!  How  shall 
I  break  it  to  the  Doctor,"  Sherbrand  asked  himself,  "if 
that  German  fellow  has  carried  off  the  boy?" 

"Steady-0!  Ketch  on  to  me,  sir.  .  .  .  Nobody's  look- 
ing ! "  said  the  telegraph  clerk.  He  was  a  hero-worshipper  on 
a  robust  scale  and  Sherbrand  his  chosen  deity.  "This  ain't 
our  young  Boss  givin'  in,  but  just  his  empty  inside  playin' 
tricks  on  him,  "  he  assured  himself.  To  Sherbrand  he  said 
humbly :  "  If  you'd  come  over  to  the  cabin  there's  hot  cocoa 
and  toke  there.  Grub'll  steady  you,  if  you'll  excuse  me 
taking  the  liberty  of  saying  so — and  you  can't  do  nothing 
till  he  comes!" 

The  person  to  whom  Burgin  referred  had  passed  the 
entrance-gates,  almost  before  the  sentence  left  the  lips  of 
the  clerk.  Now  his  alert,  upright  figure  came  in  sight, 
briskly  turning  the  corner  of  the  restaurant,  and  wrought  to 
the  point  of  ironic  merriment  by  the  greatness  of  the  blow 
that  had  fallen  on  him,  Sherbrand  shook  off  his  dizziness 


Hue  and  Cry  2']'] 

and  faintness,  straightened  his  tall  body,  clapped  both 
hands  to  his  mouth,  and  gave  the  huntsman's  view-halloo: 

' '  Stole  away  !  Stole — awa-aay  ! ' ' 

Small  cause  for  mirth,  and  yet  he  laughed,  pointingto  the 
dwindling  speck  high  upon  the  north  horizon  that  repre- 
sented the  worldly  prospects  of  Sherbrand,  and  a  handsome 
sum  in  cash.  The  Bird,  just  then  entering  a  broad  belt  of 
gold-white  mackerel-cloud,  was  lost  to  view  in  another 
instant.  But  the  Chief  had  wheeled  upon  the  pointing 
gesture,  and  seen,  and  understood. 

Then  he  was  upon  them,  saying  in  accents  jarred  with 
anger : 

"How  was  this  allowed  to  happen?  You  were  warned. 
You  had  my  wire?" 

Sherbrand's  mouth  was  wrung  awry  with  another  spasm 
of  mirthless  laughter.  He  fought  it  back  and  held  out  the 
crumpled  slip  of  paper,  saying: 

"I  did,  but  luck  was  on  his  side.  Thanks  to  a  relapse  on 
Macrombie's  part,  I  got  this  after  the  Bird  had  flown." 

"The  Bird  ..." 

The  blue-grey  eyes  and  the  keen  hazel  met,  and  struck  a 
spark  between  them. 

"'The  Bird.'  He  has  taken  French  leave — or,  more 
appropriately,  German — by  the  help  of  your  machine?" 

Sherbrand  nodded,  setting  his  teeth  grimly.  The  wail- 
ing voice  of  the  pallid  clerk  came  in  like  a  refrain: 

"'Ooked  it.  Bunked — so  'elp  me  Jimmy  Johnson! 
With  our  young  guv'nor's  mono',  and  the  gyro  'overer!" 

Said  the  Chief,  moving  sharply  towards  where  the  Wire- 
less mast  straddled  over  the  telegraph-cabin: 

"He  has  adopted  the  only  means  of  exit  by  which  it  was 
possible  for  him  to  escape.  All  railways  stations  are  being 
watched,  all  highways  patrolled  by  our  agents,  travelling  in 
high-powered  motor-cars.  We  are  on  the  look-out  for  him 
at  every  ocean  shipping-port.  One  road  we  left  open,  not 
having  the  means  to  block  it — and  that  is  the  road  of  the 


278  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

stork  and  the  swan!  Decidedly,  I  might  have  guessed  that 
he  would  play  Young  Lochinvar  after  this  fashion.  But 
until  I  left  the  ground  an  hour  ago  I  did  not  know  of  the 
theft  of  the  Clanronald  Plan. " 

"The  Clanronald — "  Sherbrand  was  beginning,  when  the 
Chief  cut  him  short. 

"I  had  forgotten  that  you  are  as  little  wise  as  I  was 
an  hour  back.  Better  glance  at  this  paragraph  while  I 
make  use  of  your  0.  T.  installation  and  Wireless,  and  put 
the  fear  of  Heaven  into  Macrombie,  incidentally  and  by  the 
way." 

He  thrust  a  tightly-folded  copy  of  the  Evening  Wire  upon 
Sherbrand  and  vanished  into  the  rum-flavoured  stuffiness  of 
the  cabin,  with  the  pallid  telegraph  clerk  close  upon  his 
heels.  And  upon  Sherbrand,  in  the  act  of  unfolding  the 
newspaper,  rushed  his  Fate,  in  a  hat  of  silver  spangles: 
challenging  the  knowledge  in  him  with  blazing  eyes  well 
upon  the  level  of  his  own. 

"Mr.  Sherbrand.  .  .  .  Tell  me  what  has  happened? 
"Why  do  you  look  so — queer  and — white?" 

She  herself  was  whiter  than  her  narrow  dress,  and  the 
mouth  the  eager  rush  of  words  poured  from  was  pale  under 
its  rose-tinted  salve.     She  hurried  on  breathlessly : 

"They  show  no  signs  of  coming  back — it  fidgets  me  hor- 
ribly. And — I  was  looking — from  over  there,  where  I  was 
with  Uncle  Owen, — when  you  called  out,  'Stole  away!'  and 
waved  j^our  arm."  She  glanced  at  the  sky,  shuddered 
and  looked  back  at  him.  "Am  I  silly?  But  all  the  same, 
the  General  told  you  something !  I  don't  ask  what !  But  I 
funk — I  don't  know  why,  but  it's  beastly — the  sensation! 
Tell  me  I've  nothing  to  be  afraid  of — I  swear  I'll  take  your 
word!" 

That  she  was  just  then  a  creature  full  of  fears  was  written 
large  upon  her.  She  might  have  quoted  Queen  Constance, 
who  I  think  was  also  a  galumpher,  meaning  a  woman  of  big 
build  and  sweeping  gestures,   and  an  imperious  temper 


Hue  and  Cry  279 

withal.  Sherbrand  feared  also,  and  the  pang  of  solicitude 
for  the  pretty  boy  so  unexpectedly  dragged  into  the  vortex 
of  a  diplomatic  and  political  felony  was,  to  do  him  credit, 
quite  as  sharp  as  the  pang  caused  him  by  the  rape  of  the 
Bird. 

He  answered: 

"Miss  Saxham,  I  do  not  believe  that  there  is  any  danger 
of  an  accident.  But — that  there  will  be  delay — I  shall  not 
try  to  disguise.     The  fact  is " 

A  guttural,  Teutonic  voice  said  close  at  Sher brand's 
shoulder. 

"  i^nddiges  FrduUin  will  wish  to  return  home?  It  is  getting 
^ate,  so  very  later  I  Aaf  inscructions  from  my  master  to 
drive  the  Frdulein  back  to  her  address." 

Sherbrand  wheeled,  to  be  confronted  by  the  thickset 
figure  of  the  moustached  and  uniformed  attendant  who  had 
occupied  the  seat  beside  the  chauffeur  of  the  big  blue  F.I.- 
A.T.  car. 

"Who  is  this?"  he  demanded  in  a  look,  and  Patrine,  her 
pallor  drowned  in  a  scarlet  blush  of  horrible  embarrassment, 
stammered : 

"I  really — haven't  the  least  idea!" 

' '  You  hear ! ' '  Shcrbrand's  tone  was  not  pleasant .  ' '  The 
lady  does  not  know  you — that  ought  to  be  enough!" 

Patrine  felt  herself  drowning  in  chill  waves  of  horror. 
The  man  persisted : 

"The  lady  is  a  friend  of  the  gentleman  who  brought  her 
here.  ...  I  haf  my  orders  to  drive  the  lady  home  in  the 
yellow  car!" 

In  his  muddy  eyes  there  flickered  a  leer  or  a  menace. 
Patrine  saw  the  Doctor  coming  and  fiew  to  his  side.  Sher- 
brand said,  looking  sternly  at  the  German : 

"You  understand,  your  orders  are  nothing  to  the  lady. 
She  does  not  choose  to  be  driven  home  by  you!" 

The  man  protested : 

"But  my  master " 


28o  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Sherbrand  demanded: 

"Who  is  your  master?"  Then  a  sudden  light  dawned 
upon  him,  and  he  turned  and  knocked  sharply  at  the  cabin- 
door.  At  which  the  liveried  attendant,  as  a  man  who  finds 
hesitancy  a  double-edged  weapon,  wheeled  in  military 
fashion  and  retreated,  casting  a  surly  glance  over  his 
shoulder,  and  quickening  his  heavy  footsteps  to  a  jog-trot  as 
the  General's  active  person  appeared  at  Sherbrand's  side. 

"That  man,  Sir  Roland!"  Sherbrand's  slight  gesture 
indicated  the  thickset  figure  now  getting  hurriedly  into  the 
yellow  Darracq.  He  added,  as  the  car  swirled  round  the 
corner  of  the  restaurant  and  vanished  in  the  direction  of 
the  entrance-gates,  "Ought  I  to  have  grabbed  the  brute, 
and  hung  on  to  him?  He  was  certainly  with  a  party  of 
foreign-looking  people,  who  interviewed  von  Herrnung  just 
before  he  got  away.     You  saw  them?" 

"I  certainly  saw  them.  And  I  agree  with  you  that  their 
unexpected  appearance  has  had  to  do  with  their  country- 
man's sudden  departure, "  said  the  Chief.  "But  to  grab  an 
orderly  of  the  German  Embassy  would  be — only  less  risky 
than  grabbing  a  Kaiser's  messenger,  on  suspicion  of  his 
carrying  stolen  War  Secrets  in  his  official  bag. " 

"A  Kaiser's  messenger!"  Sherbrand's  mouth  shaped  a 
soundless  whistle,  "Why,  now  I  remember,  he  had  a  dis- 
patch-case or  valise  with  him.  Wouldn't  hear  of  leaving 
it  behind!" 

"I — daresay  not,  "  the  Chief's  dry  smile  commented. 

Sherbrand  went  on : 

"I  developed  muscle  in  persuading  him  to  let  it  go  in  the 
observer's  cockpit  for  fear  of  it  fouling  the  warping-controls. 
No  wonder  he  stuck  to  it.     War  Secrets!" 

"  It  is  plain  you  haven't  glanced  at  the  Evening  Wire.  It 
tells  the  story  rather  pithily,  beginning  with  an  outbreak  of 
fire  on  Tuesday  night  at  Gwyll  Castle,  Denbigh,  caused  by 
a  short-circuit  in  the  electric-lighting  apparatus  of  the 
North  Tower. " 


Hue  and  Cry  281 

He  went  on; 

"I  waste  no  time  telling  you,  for  all  that's  possible  has 
been  done  now  in  setting  our  agents  on  the  track  of  the 
flying  thief!  The  North  Tower  at  Gwyll  holds  the  priceless 
Clanronald  library,  and  the  Muniment  Chamber,  where  they 
bottle  up  the  original  MSS.  detailing  the  War  Plan  of  the  old 
Earl.  The  short-circuit  that  set  up  the  blaze  was — the  kind 
that  any  amateur  can  arrange  for  with  rubber  gloves,  a  pair 
of  pliers  and  a  bit  of  soda-water  wire." 

"Is  it  known  who  the  amateur  was?" 

"There  is  reason  to  suspect  one  Herr  Rassing,  an  under- 
librarian  of  German  nationality,  who  behaved  like  a  hero, 
according  to  the  local  Fire  Brigade!  He  it  was,  who  sug- 
gested— Clanronald  being  absent  on  a  yachting-cruise  in  the 
Fjords  of  Norway — that  the  contents  of  the  Muniment 
Chamber  should  be  transferred  to  the  strong-room  in  the 
basement  of  the  East  Wing.  He  superintended  the  re- 
moval, armed  with  knowledge,  enthusiasm,  and  a  large- 
sized  Webley  Scott  revolver,  with  which  he  volunteered  to 
keep  solitary  guard  till  morning,  outside  the  strong-room 
door!" 

"And  wnen  daylight  came — "  hinted  Sherbrand. 

"It  discovered  the  zealous  Herr  Rassing  to  be  missing, 
and  a  corresponding  hiatus  in  the  treasures  of  the  Muniment 
Chamber.  Item,  a  sharkshin  case  inlaid  with  ivory  figures, 
Japanese,  antique  and  valuable, — containing  the  original 
diagrams — chemical  Jormulce  and  so  on — embodying  the 
famous  Plan." 

Sherbrand  asked. 

"Was  it  as  tremendous  as  they  tell  one?" 

The  crisp  voice  answered: 

"Tremendous  it  not  only  was,  but  Is.  The  most  terrible 
and  effective  method  of  annihilating  an  enemy,  that  has 
ever  been  conceived  by  the  brain  of  man." 

Sherbrand  said,  drawing  a  deep  breath: 

"And  that  is  what  von  Herrnung  carried  in  the  brown 


282 


That  Which  Hath  Wings 


leather  valise-thing  that  he  took  away  with  my  machine! 
Not  that  I  trouble  about  the  Bird.  She  was  old,  and  I've 
got  the  stuff  to  build  a  new  one.  But  my  patent — the 
hawk-hoverer — that's  another  pair  of  shoes!" 

"The  hawk — !     Phee-eew!" 

The  Chief  whistled  a  rueful  note  and  his  keen  eyes  soft- 
ened in  sympathy: 

"I  had  forgotten  your  invention.  So  von  Herrnung  has 
scooped  for  Germany  the  gyroscopic  hovering-apparatus 
that  the  French  War  Ministry  were  proposing  to  buy. 
Now  I  understand  the  something  about  you  that  has 
puzzled  me.  You  wear  the  look  of  a  father,  Sherbrand, 
bereaved  of  an  uncommonly  promising  son." 

Saxham's  stern  face  rose  up  in  Sherbrand's  thought, 
stamped  with  that  look,  and  his  throat  contracted  chokingly. 
The  Chief  asked : 

"What  sort  of  man  is  the  mechanic  von  Herrnung  has 
commandeered?  A  fellow  easy  to  bribe,  or  intimidate?  It 
would  be  worth  while  to  know?" 

"It's  a  boy — not  a  man!"  broke  from  Sherbrand,  hur- 
riedly and  hoarsely.  "General,  no  more  unlucky  thing 
could  have  happened!  .  .  .  Dr.  Saxham's  twelve-year-old 
nipper  took  a  tremendous  shine  to  von  Herrnung,  and — and 
■ — he's  gone  with  him!  That's  the  news  the  Doctor's  got 
to  hear  by  and  by!" 

There  was  a  silence.  The  Chief's  face  was  turned  away. 
Then  he  said  quietly: 

"There  was  no  question  of  'a  shine.'  My  Scout  was 
obeying  an  order.  His  Chief  Scout  had  said,  'Keep  this 
man  under  observation;  and  if  he  leaves  the  Flying  Ground 
— follow  him,  if  you  can!" 

Sherbrand  could  not  speak  for  pity  of  the  small  white  face 
that  had  grinned  at  him  out  of  the  clumsy  woollen  helmet. 
He  understood  now,  that  when  he  had  bent  to  strap  the 
safety-belt  about  the  little  body  swathed  in  the  flannel- 
lined  pneumatic  jacket,  he  had  felt  a  terrified  child-heart 


Hue  and  Cry  283 

bum  pity-bum  ping  under  his  hand.  And  he  struggled  with 
his  grief  and  rage  in  silence,  broken  by  an  utterance  from 
the  other  man. 

"So  he  followed  him  into  the  air,  seeing  no  other  course 
before  him.  My  old  friend  Saxham  has  good  reason  to 
chortle  over  such  a  son.  I  said  to-day,  'I  am  proud  of  my 
Scouts!'  Well,  to-night  I  am  ten  times  prouder.  I  shall 
tell  the  Doctor  this — when  I  get  a  private  word  with  him — 
and  wind  up  with:  'Thanks  to  Bawne!'" 

"Then  the  Doctor — "  Sherbrand  began,  a  weight  lift- 
ing with  the  hope  that  the  news  might  not  have  to  be 
broken ; 

"  The  Doctor  knew.  I  had  said  to  him,  doggily :  Til  give 
your  pup  a  fighting  chance  to  prove  his  Saxham  breed. '  It's 
a  stark  breed — hard  as  granite,  supple  as  incandescent  lava, 
— with  a  strain  of  Berserk  madness,  and  a  dash  of  Oriental 
fatalism.  They  can  hate  magnificently  and  forgive  grandly, 
and  love  to  the  very  verge  of  death." 

Could  she,  Sherbrand  wondered,  letting  his  eyes  travel  to 
the  tall  white  woman  standing  by  the  Doctor,  as  the  Chief 
went  over  to  them  and  grasped  his  old  friend's  hand.  Then 
both  men  moved  away  across  the  dusky  ground  together. 
Those  words  of  thanks  and  praise  were  being  spoken.  Com- 
ing from  such  a  source  they  must  be  heartening  to  listen  to. 
But  presently  when  their  glow  had  paled  and  faded,  and  the 
boy  did  not  come  back  .   .  . 

Presently,  when  the  empty  chair  and  the  vacant  bed,  and 
the  little  garments  hanging  in  the  wardrobe  should  be  filled 
and  occupied  and  worn  only  by  a  shadow-child  wrought  of 
lovely  memories.  By  and  by,  when  the  silence  in  the  house 
should  clamour  in  the  tortured  ears  of  the  woman  and  the 
man  .  .  . 

Then,  Sherbrand  knew  no  praise  of  their  lost  darling 
would  console  Bawne's  parents.  .  .  .  Dry-eyed  they 
might  smile  until  their  lips  cracked,  but  their  hidden  hearts 
would   weep.     Their  tongues  might   be  silent,   but   their 


284  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

hearts  would  cry  always ;  Did  we  wish  our  child  to  be  heroic  ? 
Had  he  been  a  craven  we  would  have  had  him  now  beside 
us!  Give  us  our  living  boy  again!  0!  keep  your  empty 
words ! 

A  cry  from  Patrine  prodded  Sherbrand  to  active  sym- 
pathy. So  at  last  they  had  told  her.  She  knew  all.  And 
true  to  her  type  she  was  raging  at  the  Doctor  and  the  Chief 
like  a  very  termagant;  upbraiding  them  with  a  spate  of 
words  rushing  over  her  writhing  lips  and  lioness-frenzy  in 
her  blazing  eyes. 

"I  begged  you  not  to  let  him  go!"  This  was  to  the 
Doctor.  "Faint!  Do  you  take  me  for  a  bally  idiot — to 
faint  when  there's  something  to  be  done !  Follow  that  man 
and  get  him  back!  If  he  takes  him  away  to  Germany — 
don't  you  know  we  shall  never  see  Bawne  again!  Oh!  why 
— why  can't  I  make  3^ou  understand!" 

The  raging  voice  grew  hoarse  with  sobs,  though  her  furi- 
ous eyes  were  dry  as  enamel.  She  added  with  an  inflection 
that  made  Sherbrand  blink  and  gulp: 

"  Don't  you  know — don't  you  knoiu  it  will  kill  Aunt  Lyn- 
ette?  And  I  shall  be  guilty — I  who  love  them  so!  Oh, 
God,  I  must  do  something  or  die  raving  mad!" 

The  Doctor's  great  arm  held  her  firmly  round  the  body. 
Saxham  was  strong  as  an  oak-tree,  but  who  can  control  a 
woman  in  the  frenzy  of  hysteria,  standing  six  feet  tall  in 
high-heeled  No.  7  shoes?  She  wrestled  and  fought,  and  her 
tawdry  hat  of  silver  spangles  tumbled  off,  and  her  superb 
hair  shed  its  pins  of  tortoiseshell,  and  rolled,  yellow-tawny 
as  a  South  African  torrent  in  flood-time,  down  over  her 
heaving  shoulders,  over  the  supple  back  and  writhing  loins, 
reaching  nearly  to  her  knees.  Then  her  strength  went 
from  her,  and  her  tears  came.  She  dropped  into  a  chair 
Sherbrand  had  got  her,  and  crumpled  up  there,  crying 
bitterly. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


PATRINE    CONFESSES 


With  her  hat  off  and  her  hairpins  out,  and  her  tawny- 
coloured  mane  tumbhng  over  her  heaving  shoulders,  the 
superb  illusion  of  maturity  vanished.  The  three  men 
viewed  Patrine  with  clear,  unprejudiced  eyes.  Stripped  of 
the  magic  cloak  of  Circe,  here  was  no  transformer  of  Man 
into  the  hoofed  and  rooting  mammal,  but  a  great  galumph- 
ing schoolgirl,  pouring  out  a  heartful  of  trouble,  without  the 
least  concern  for  her  complexion;  mopping  her  streaming 
eyes  with  a  little  sopping  handkerchief;  temporarily  ending 
its  brief  career  of  usefulness  with  a  dismal  blast  upon  the 
nose. 

"Take  mine!"  said  Saxham,  thrusting  the  large-sized 
square  of  cambric  upon  her. 

"Th — thank  you.  Uncle  Owen!" 

She  said  it  in  the  voice  of  a  child.  The  torrent  of  tears, 
so  different  from  those  shed  earlier,  had  washed  her  heart 
clean.  Something  hard  and  cynical  and  evil  had  passed  out 
of  her.     She  was  Bawne's  dear  Pat  again. 

A  lean  brown  hand  that  wore  a  chipped  and  ancient 
signet  was  next  held  out  to  her.  She  grasped  it  and  was 
straightway  hauled  upon  her  feet. 

"Are  you  better?"  said  a  friendly  voice,  in  a  crisp  way. 

"I — think  so.  Thank  you,  Sir  Roland!"  She  added  in 
a  tone  as  tear-soaked  as  her  handkerchief,  while  Saxham 
offered  her  her  hat,  and  Sherbrand  tendered  tortoiseshell 
hairpins : 

"I'm  awfully  afraid  I  have  behaved  like  a  fool!" 

"Like  a  woman!"  said  the  friendly  voice  even  more 
crisply. 

28s 


286  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"Do  you  think  women  are  fools?"  she  was  beginning, 
when  she  caught  his  eye  and  broke  off.  For  she  had  met 
Sir  Roland's  mother  and  she  knew  his  young  wife  quite  well, 
and  her  Aunt  Lynette,  the  one  living  being  whom  she  wor- 
shipped, was  one  of  his  closest  friends.  No!  To  this  man 
women  were  sacred.  Why  had  she  uttered  such  a  banality? 
For  the  life  of  her  she  did  not  know. 

She  drew  a  sobbing  breath,  and  looked  about  her  vaguely, 
and  suddenly  a  mist  rolled  away  from  her  brain.  The  net 
of  Tragedy  whirled  high  and  fell  upon  her,  and  the  steel 
trident  was  driven  deep  between  her  ribs  again: 

"I — had  forgotten!"  She  stared  upon  them.  "What 
must  you  all  think  of  me?" 

Saxham's  arm  came  round  her,  and  Saxham's  voice 
answered : 

"Nothing,  my  dear,  but  that  you  are  human,  and  have 
had  a  tremendous  shock ! ' ' 

She  leaned  against  the  Doctor's  great  shoulder,  sighing: 

"Thank  you!  ...  I'm  all  right  now!  Not  going  to 
cry  any  more.  ...  But  Bawne!  If  we  wait  long  enough 
there  will  be  news  of  him?     We — shall  get  him  back?" 

She  felt  Saxham's  iron  muscles  jerk,  and  his  ribs  heave  as 
though  the  trident  had  found  a  home  between  them.  Per- 
haps he  could  not  find  his  voice,  for  it  was  the  Chief  who 
said: 

"We  are  doing  everything  possible.  Mr.  Sherbrand  is 
helping.  He  has  been  good  enough  to  place  the  telegraph 
installation  at  our  disposal  and  the  Wireless  also.  A  call, 
Burgin?" 

The  undersized  clerk  had  waved  a  hand  from  the  thresh- 
old of  the  cabin.      The  Chief  vanished.      Patrine  sighed: 

"Oh,  if  there  should  be  news!" 

"You  are  too  sensible  to  be  bowled  over  if  there  happens 
to  be  no  news, "  said  the  Doctor's  voice.  But  his  arm  was 
tense  about  her  waist  and  she  felt  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

"Uncle  Owen!" 


Patrine  Confesses  287 

Sherbrand  had  withdrawn  out  of  earshot.  She  squeezed 
the  kind  responsive  hand,  turned  her  mouth  towards  the 
Doctor's  ear,  and  whispered  tremulously: 

"Uncle  Owen!  You  don't  know  him  as  I  do.  That's 
why  I  am  so — horribly  afraid  for  Bawne!  He  would  be 
cruel  to  anyone  you  liked,  if  he  hated  you.  And  he  is 
furious  with  me!  I  have  thwarted  him  in — something  he 
wishes!     He  is  bad! — dangerous! — do  you  understand?" 

"He  cannot  be  a  bad  pilot  with  such  a  record.  And  in 
such  calm  weather  there  is  little  danger  of  an  accident.  We 
must  be  patient;  there  is  nothing  else  to  do  at  the  moment, 
but  wait!" 

Saxham  had  feigned  to  misunderstand  her,  for  very  pity, 
you  can  conceive.  Blurting  out  her  miserable  secret  in  this 
moment  of  unselfish  sorrow,  his  heart  was  wrung  in  him  to 
an  anguish  of  compassion  for  Patrine.  But  no  less  was  he 
wrung  by  the  truth  her  words  conveyed.  His  son  and 
Lynette's  was  in  the  power  of  an  evil  man!  What  was 
David's  daughter  saying? 

' '  Uncle  Owen ! ' '  The  tall  figure  of  Sherbrand  had  moved 
away  into  the  reddish  twilight,  and  a  wild  desire  of  con- 
fession spurred  on  the  girl  to  desperate  frankness  of  speech. 
She  hurried  on,  nerving  herself  to  the  change  that  would 
presently  show  in  Saxham.  "Uncle  Owen!  I  think  you 
had  better  know!     Since  I  met  him  in  Paris  I " 

"Stop!"  said  Saxham.  But  she  would  not  stop.  She 
had  his  blood  in  her,  and  went  on,  though  to  have  set  her 
naked  foot  on  glowing  iron  would  have  been  easier  than  to 
tell. 

"  I  have  flirted  with  him! — gone  alone  with  him  to  restau- 
rants and  music-halls! — let  him  take  me  to  the  Upas!" — 
there  was  a  tightness  like  knotted  whipcord  about  her 
throat;  "That's— not  the  worst!" 

"I  guessed  it.     Stop!"  Saxham  repeated: 
"Who  told?" — she  faltered  brokenly,  and  shivered  at  the 
deep  stern  whisper: 


288  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"No  one  told,  but  the  reputation  of  the — man  is  known 
to  me.  His  type  does  not  hesitate  where  a  woman's  virtue 
is  concerned." 

A  great  sigh  burst  from  her.  "And  you  can  speak  to  me 
and  touch  me  kindly — you  don't  hate  the  sight  of  me?" 

"No,  my  poor  girl,  God  forbid!" 

"How  good! — "  she  began,  broke  off  and  said,  shudder- 
ing: "But — Aunt  Lynette!  How  could  I  bear  it,  if  she 
were  ever  to  know " 

Saxham  said  harshly: 

"She  shall  not  know!  Who  do  you  dream  will  tell  her? 
Not  I !  So  set  your  mind  at  rest,  my  girl.  You  are  a  girl 
— though  you  talk  like  a  woman  of  thirty!" 

She  said  with  a  miserable  catch  in  her  throat : 

"Nineteen  is  rather  young,  isn't  it?  Perhaps  things 
would  have  been  different  if  only  Dada  had  lived!" 

The  utterance  was  as  inapposite  as  it  was  sentimental. 
If  David  had  still  been  in  existence  his  daughter  would 
have  had  no  less  cause  for  regret.  But  Saxham,  inwardly 
quivering  and  wrung  with  pity,  could  only  acquiesce: 

"Perhaps  things  would!  What  you  have  got  to  do  now 
is — Forget!  Do  you  hear  me?  I  order  you,  and  I  will  be 
obeyed!  And  I  will  have  you  leave  this  titled  lady  who 
employs  you,  and  who  is  all  kindness  and  no  discretion. 
Resign  your  post  to-morrow!  You  need  not  return  to  your 
mother.  My  house  is  your  home!"  He  went  on  in  his 
rare  tone  of  tenderness,  "You  need  no  telling  that  I  care 
for  you  as  a  daughter.  Come  to  me,  and  to  Lynette  who 
loves  you  dearly.  She  will  want  comfort — now  that — " 
His  voice  broke  and  his  mouth  twisted.  He  fought  with  his 
anguish,  in  silence,  turning  his  grim  v/hite  face  away. 

' '  Who  will  tell  Aunt  Lynette  ?  Oh !  who  will  tell  her  ?"  he 
heard  Patrine  whisper.     He  commanded  himself  to  answer: 

"For  the  present,  I  have  telephoned  her  that  we  may  be 
detained  here  until  late.  Suppose  you  twist  up  your  hair 
now,  and  put  your  hat  on.     Sherbrand!" 


Patrine  Confesses  289 

A  sweet,  manly  voice  answered  out  of  the  dimness  of  the 
Flying  Ground:  "Here,  Doctor!     You  called  me?" 

In  the  madder  and  umber  light  of  the  dying  sunset  Sher- 
brand's  tall  brown  shape  came  towards  them.  Saxham  said 
as  Patrine  swept  her  tawny  tresses  into  one  rough  rope : 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  find  out  whether  the  people  at 
the  refreshment-place  could  give  my  niece  something  by 
way  of  substitute  for  dinner.  A  cup  of  coffee,  or  cocoa  with 
milk,  a  roll  and  butter,  and  a  slice  of  cold  beef  or  ham?" 

Sherbrand  said  eagerly: 

"I  am  sure  Miss  Saxham  can  get  anything  like  that. 
Mrs.  Durrant  keeps  open  house  till  nine  o'clock,  or  later, 
if  there  is  reason.  She  caters  for  the  School  Staff,  respect- 
ably, by  contract.  I  lodge — a  very  decent  berth — over  the 
dining-room,  where  I  have  my  grub.  Noisy  by  day  but 
quiet  enough  at  night-time.  Will  you  come  this  way,  Miss 
Saxham?     You  too,  Doctor?" 

Saxham  declined.     They  left  him  standing  there,  in  the 
wide  expanse  that  was  filling  up  with  brooding  shadows, 
with  his  back  to  the  dying  rose  of  the  sunset,  looking  fixedly 
to  the  north. 
19 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE   REBOUND 

Patrine,  that  magnificent  animal,  had  passed  unknow- 
ingly through  the  painful  ordeal  which  accompanies  in  the 
human  the  evolution  of  a  soul.  No  doubt  she  had  had  one 
before  without  suspecting  it.  Now  she  was  conscious  of 
the  presence  of  the  guest. 

Through  the  big  barbaric  halls  of  her  nature,  glittering 
with  tinsel  over  plaster  backed  with  canvas,  thronged  with 
vanities,  appetites,  desires,  and  ambitions,  jostling  at  the 
glittering  fountains,  buying  at  the  tawdry  counters,  flocking 
to  the  dubious  restaurants,  swooping  down  the  water-chutes, 
wandering  through  the  painted  landscapes,  drinking  in  the 
dubious  atmosphere,  had  passed  a  ray  of  light,  pure,  vivify- 
ing and  cleansing,  had  blown  a  breeze  of  crystal  mountain 
air.  And  through  the  blare  of  brass  a  note  had  sounded 
that  would  never  cease  to  vibrate  in  Patrine's  ears.  Hav- 
ing partially  confessed,  she  experienced  a  disproportionate 
rebound  of  spirits.  Her  fears  for  Bawne  weighed  on  her  less 
heavily,  Saxham's  reference  to  cold  ham  had  awakened  in 
her  the  pangs  of  healthy  appetite.  The  proximity  of  Sher- 
brand  was  a  vividly  keen  pleasure.  She  had  always  wished 
for  a  brother,  and  here  was  the  very  heau  ideal  of  one!  She 
meant  to  ask  him  if  he  had  sisters — she  was  sitre  they  would 
be  awfully  nice  girls! 

One  or  two  electric  lights  were  switched  on  in  the  big  room 
full  of  little  white-covered  tables,  with  the  counter  at  the 
far  end  piled  high  with  thick  white  plates.  The  big  nickel 
urns  were  cold  and  empty,  but  Mrs.  Durrant,  the  stout  and 
smiling  proprietress  of  the  restaurant,  produced  hot  coffee 

290 


The  Rebound  291 

and  milk  in  a  twinkling,  bread  and  butter,  the  cold  ham, 
and  a  cold  pigeon-pie. 

With  her  own  very  fat,  very  pink  hands  Mrs.  Durrant 
ministered,  voluble  the  while  in  sympathy.  .  .  .  The  lady 
had  been  upset  because  the  dear  little  boy  hadn't  come 
back.  People  were  sometimes  kept  for  hours  through  a 
Loose  Nut,  or  a  Slack  Wire,  or  a  Carburotter,  or  some  little 
thing  or  another  going  wrong. 

"You  remember  when  Under-Instructor  Davis  took  Mr. 
Durrant  for  an  Air  Beano  all  the  way  to  Upavon,  Mr.  Sher- 
brand?  Flares  burning  'alfway  through  the  night,  and  pore 
me! — new  to  the  Flying  then — wasn't  I,  Mr.  Sherbrand? — 
going  from  one  fit  of  astericks  into  another,  and  running  out 
to  meet  Durrant,  when  he  dropped  down  calmly  'Ome  at 
four  in  the  mornin',  with  my  hair  all  untidy  and  hangin' 
about  me — "  Patrine  swiftly  put  up  a  hand  to  assure  her- 
self that  her  own  tawny  coils  were  securely  fastened — "for 
all  the  world  like  an  Indian  Squawk. " 

"Wives  had  their  feelings,  it  was  only  to  be  expected," 
said  Mrs.  Durrant.  Mothers  had  also  theirs,  and,  that  was 
natural  too!  Patrine  found  the  idea  of  her  own  maternal 
relationship  to  Bawne  so  firmly  fixed  in  the  mind  of  Mrs. 
Durrant,  it  was  barely  worth  the  trouble  to  endeavour  to 
explain  it  away.  Mrs.  Durrant  had  none  of  her  own,  worse 
luck!  but  here,  just  coming  with  the  salad  and  some  fried 
potatoes,  was  Mr.  Durrant's  married  niece,  Ellen  Agnes, 
and  nobody  knew  better  what  it  was  to  lose  a  darling  child. 

Ellen  Agnes,  wan-eyed,  anaemic,  slipshod,  and  over- 
worked, supported  the  statement.  Only  in  April  it  'ad 
'appened,  and  Ellen  Agnes  'ad  never  'eld  'er  'ead  up  prop- 
erly since.  And  little  Elbert  the  'ealthiest  of  children. 
Rising  three  and  never  a  nillness  till  the  pewmonia  carried 
'im  orf.  'Ad  only  'ad  'im  phortographed  three  days  before 
it  'appened!  with  'is  lovely  httle  limbs  and  body  naked, 
sitting  on  a  fur  rug,  the  blessed  dear! 

Ellen  Agnes  not  appearing  to  recognise  any  connecting 


292  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

link  between  the  nude  pose  and  the  pneumonia,  Patrine 
suppressed  the  obvious  suggestion.  Both  women  meant 
well,  but  their  talkative  sympathy  oppressed  her.  She 
imagined  how,  when  Sherbrand  ate  alone,  the  stout  aunt  and 
the  thin  niece  would  hover  round  his  table,  assaihng  his 
ears  with  their  Cockney  voices,  making  their  common,  vul- 
gar comments  on  the  happenings  of  the  day. 

Perhaps  her  disrelish  showed,  for  the  kind  women  pre- 
sently slackened  their  attentions.  There  was  nothing  then 
to  divert  Sherbrand's  attention  from  his  guest,  beyond 
the  undeniable  attractions  of  the  hastily  spread  board. 

So  they  ate  the  pie,  all  of  it.  Patrine  cried,  in  frank 
astonishment  at  the  evaporation  of  her  second  plateful : 

"But  I  am  a  wolf  or  something.  No!  Not  even  salad. 
What  must  you  think  of  me?  Crying  my  eyes  out  one 
minute  and  stodging  pigeon-pie  the  next !  Do  the  rest  of 
the  friends  you  feed  here  behave  as  badly  as  that?" 

Sherbrand  returned,  ignoring  the  mention  of  other  guests : 

"Now,  what  should  I  think?  Nothing  but  that  you 
wanted  something  to  buck  you,  and  I  was  pretty  ravenous 
myself.  It  was  pretty  parky  up  there  at  10,000."  He 
answered  to  her  question  how  high  that  was:  Why,  com- 
paratively, you  might  imagine  it  about  nine  times  as  high 
as  the  top  of  St.  Paul's  Cross  from  the  level  of  the  ground. " 

Little  the  speaker  dreamed  then  of  aerial  battles  to  be 
fought  at  20,000.  She  asked  whether  he  had  "felt  giddy" 
and  he  shook  his  head,  saying: 

"If  I  had  felt  inclined  to  giddiness  I  should  have  put  off 
climbing  until  I  felt  fitter.  I  sympathise  with  Opera  Stars 
who  disappoint  full  houses,  because  some  high  C  or  lower 
G  is  a  hairsbreadth  off  the  bull.  The  singer  can't  afford  a 
false  note.  It's  death  to  a  reputation.  And  the  Flying 
Man  can't  risk  brain-swim,  because  it  means  possibly  nose- 
dive and  smash.  So  I  stay  out  of  my  sky  unless  I'm  sure  of 
myself.     There's  nothing  on  earth  hke  being  sure." 

He  had  a  way  of  saying  "my  sky"  that  was  queer  and 


The  Rebound  293 

rather  beautiful.  Just  as  though  he  had  been  a  lark, 
occurred  to  Patrine.  And  indeed,  in  the  beaky,  jutting 
nose,  and  the  full,  bright  eyes  set  forward  and  flush  with  the 
wide  orbital  arches,  there  was  some  resemblance  between 
the  man  and  the  bird. 

Patrine  sunned  herself  in  the  lighter  moment.  She  who 
had  lain  through  the  night  sleepless — had  risen  still  a  bond- 
slave— realized  that  her  fetters  were  broken  now  that  her 
evil  genius  had  flown.  Taking  with  him  her  beloved,  she 
fully  believed  in  malice.  Piercing  though  that  knowledge 
was,  it  could  not  mar  the  blissful  sense  of  freedom,  mental 
and  physical. 

Bawne  would  be  brought  back.  Meanwhile,  one's  blood 
sang  through  one's  being,  mere  living  was  riotous  ecstasy, 
mere  breathing  sheerest  delight.  The  joy  of  life  radiated 
from  her.  And  to  Sherbrand,  sitting  opposite  at  the  little 
coarse-clothed  table,  she  grew  momentarily  more  and  more 
like  the  girl  of  the  Milles  Plaisirs. 

True,  instead  of  cloudy  black,  her  hair  vied  in  tone  with 
the  banner  of  coppery  flame  that  streams  from  the  crater  of 
an  active  volcano,  or  burns  above  some  giant  crucible  of 
molten  metal  ready  to  be  poured  forth.  Her  long  eyes 
under  her  wide  level  brows  looked  the  colour  of  peat-water, 
in  the  electric  light  that  contracted  their  pupils  to  pin-heads, 
and  brought  out  against  the  yellow-distempered  walls  the 
creamy  whiteness  of  her  wonderful  skin.  When  she  leaned 
her  round  elbows  on  the  table-cloth  and  smiled  at  him, 
it  was  the  frank,  generous  smile  that  had  warmed  his 
heart  when  he  stood  solitary  and  unfriended  on  the 
rose-pink  carpet  near  the  gilt  turnstile  on  the  Upper 
Promenade. 

He  would  put  it  to  the  test.  He  beckoned  the  pallid 
Ellen  Agnes,  asked  for  the  bill,  slipped  his  hand  into  a 
breast-pocket  and  drew  from  it  a  tiny  white  silk  pvirse. 

"Oh!     You  found  ..." 

With  an  indescribable  emotion,  half  pain,  half  pleasure, 


294  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

she  saw  her  missing  property  in  the  broad  extended  palm. 
He  said : 

"It  flashed  on  me,  even  as  I  blackguarded  Davis,  that  you 
must  have  paid  that  Commissionaire-fellow  at  the  turnstile 
or  he'd  have  been  breathing  vengeance  at  my  back.  So  I 
ran  back  to  find  you  and  ask  for  an  address  where  I  might 
send  the  money.  You  were  gone!  He  had  got  this  purse 
in  his  hand.  So  I — bluffed  the  brute  for  all  I  was  worth, 
and  got  him  to  give  it  me! — a  stroke  of  luck — for  I'd  no 
money  left  to  bribe  him  with!  Be  kind  and  tell  me  how 
much  you  gave  the  fellow!" 

The  deep  dimple  Sherbrand  remembered  showed  in  the 
full  oval  of  one  of  her  white  cheeks.  Slowly  the  pale  rose- 
flush  sweetened  and  warmed  the  whiteness.  Her  eyes  were 
dusky  stars  under  the  barbaric  wealth  of  beech-leaf  tresses. 
A  slow  smile  curved  her  mouth,  the  scarlet  lips  parted 
widely,  showing  two  perfect  rows  of  gleaming  teeth. 

"Two  half-jimmies!"  said  the  rich,  mellow  woman's 
baritone.  Why  did  it  talk  such  awful  slang?  "Half  my 
screw  for  one  whole  week  of  letter- writing,  running  errands, 
doing  shopping,  and  generally  sheepdogging  for  my  friend, 
Lady  Beauvayse ! ' ' 

"Then  please  take  this!"  This  was  a  fat  bright  sover- 
eign, "And  be  kind  and  say  that  I  may  stick  to  the 
purse  ? ' ' 

"If  you  care  to — "  Patrine  began,  dubiously. 

"I  care — most  awfully!"  He  went  on  quickly.  "Lady 
Beauvayse — your  friend — I've  seen  her — if  she's  very 
pretty  and  tremendously  American?" 

She  nodded. 

"You've  spotted  her!  That's  Lady  Beau — the  dear 
thing!  But  she  only  talks  Yankee  Doodle  to  bounders  or 
fogies,  or  people  who  seem  to  expect  it  from  her.  Her 
English  is  as  good  as  mine." 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  His  keen  face  crinkled  with 
laughter.     She  was  superbly  unconscious  of  its  cause.     He 


The  Rebound  295 

went  on,  rather  ashamed  of  having  made  fun  of  her:  "That 
accounts  for  the  Old  Kent  Road-cwm-Whitechapel  I've 
heard  from  the  august  lips  of  British  duchesses.  At  cricket- 
matches  when  Eton  and  Harrow  were  playing  'Varsity." 

"Does  it?  I  think  not!  The  duchesses  weren't  amus- 
ing themselves,  or  trying  to  snub  swankers.  They  were 
just  mothers — real  mothers- — trying  to  talk  cricket  to  their 
boys.  And  the  boys — the  sweets! — grinning  up  their 
blessed  young  sleeves,  and  saying  'Yes'm!'  and  'No'ml' 
How  I  do  love  boys!  Don't  you?"  Her  smile  contracted 
with  a  spasm  of  anguish.  "And  I'm  sitting  here,  gob- 
bling and  gabbling,  when  my  darling! — "  She  rose  taller 
than  ever,  from  the  little  table,  caught  up  her  feather  stole 
from  a  chairback  near  and  slung  it  vigorously  round  her, 
straightened  the  tinsel  hat  with  a  side-glance  at  the  strip  of  a 
looking-glass  nailed  in  a  frame  of  cheap  gilt  beading  on  the 
matchboarded  wall  at  her  right  hand,  picked  up  the  vanity- 
bag  and  the  long-sticked  sunshade,  •  and  declared  herself 
ready  to  go. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

A    NIGHT    IN    JULY 

She  reached  the  door  before  him.  He  had  turned  to  say- 
considerately  to  the  good  woman  of  the  restaurant: 

" We  shall  be  late.  .  .  .  Frightfully,  I  expect!  Promise 
me  you  won't  sit  up!" 

"Oh!  but  I  can't  promise!  One  never  knows!  Best  to 
have  people  up  an'  ready  when  there  might  be  need  of  'em ! " 
Patrine  heard,  as  she  wrenched  at  the  handle  of  the  green 
curtained  glass  door. 

"No— no!     Let  me!" 

His  hand  touched  hers  and  she  drew  it  away,  not  before  a 
keen,  sharp  thrill  had  traversed  her.  "  Vile,  hateful  crea- 
ture!'' she  said  to  the  Patrine  von  Herrnung  knew — the 
other  woman  within  her,  whom  she  loathed.  "Is  not  it 
enough  that  you  have  done  what  you  have  done?"  Then  as 
she  passed  out  into  the  night,  feeling  beneath  her  feet  the 
roughness  of  the  gravel  walk  that  led  between  grass-plats 
studded  with  green  painted  chairs  and  little  iron  tables,  a 
strange  roaring  filled  her  ears  and  hellish  tongues  of  fire 
licked  a  sky  of  vivid  blackness.  She  recoiled,  saying  in 
awed  and  shaken  tones: 

"Why!  What  has  happened?  What  does  it  mean? 
.  .  .     How  horrible!" 

The  door  had  shut  behind  them.  Now  the  round  dome  of 
the  sky  showed  not  black,  but  velvety  purple.  Away  in 
the  south-east  a  fierce  red  moon  drifted  like  some  derelict 
vessel  burning  away  to  embers  on  a  waveless  midnight  sea. 
And  sheaves  of  dazzling  blue-white  flames,  leaping  and 
roaring,  fenced  in,  or  seemed  to  fence,  a  dreadful  lake  of 

296 


A  Night  in  July  297 

Stygian  darkness,  upon  the  surface  of  which  figures — were 
they  men  or  dpvils? — moved.   .   .   . 

"Don't  be  scared,  Miss  Saxham!  It's  nothing  .  .  . 
though  I  ought  to  have  warned  you  .   .   .  !" 

Not  with  intent,  her  heaving  shoulder  pressed  against  the 
breast  of  the  man  who  had  followed  her.  Perhaps  the  con- 
tact thrilled  him,  for  his  voice  was  unsteady  as  he  went  on: 

"I  was  rather  a  brute  to  forget!  .  .  .  It's  a  night-flare 
to  guide — possible  home-comers !  .  .  .  Wads  of  tow  dipped 
in  petrol,  burning  in  iron  buckets  round  our  landing-place.  " 

"I  ought  to  have  guessed,"  she  said  ruefully.  "Forgive 
me  for  being  such  an  idiot!" 

His  answer  was  unexpected. 

"On  condition  that  you'll  leave  off  saying  'Great  Scott!' 
and  things  like  that." 

"All  right!  But  what's  the  matter  with  the  expression, 
anyhow? "  she  demanded.  "  Do  you  always  get  riled  when 
women  use  slang?" 

They  had  been  standing  within  the  gate  that  led  upon  the 
Flying  Ground,  still  girdled  by  its  Valkyr-ring  of  leaping 
flame.  He  said,  holding  open  the  gate  to  let  her  pass 
through : 

"I  use  slang  myself,  habitually,  like  every  other  man  I 
know.  But  I  don't  know  a  man  who  really  likes  to  hear  his 
wife  or  sweetheart  copy  him  in  that  respect.  For  myself 
who  have  neither  wife,  sweetheart,  nor  even  sister,  I  can 
only  say  what  I  feel.  It  is — that  a  beautiful  woman  should 
use  beautiful  language.  One  of  the  old  Greek  poets  put  the 
whole  thing  into  two  lines.  I've  forgotten  the  original,  but 
the  translation  runs  like  this: 

"  From  the  goddess  the  speech  of  Olympus, 
From  the  herd-maid  the  language  of  the  cows." 

"I'm  no  goddess,  God  knows!"  said  Patrine,  sorrowfully 
and  sincerely. 

Then  a  light  scorching  flame  seemed  to  envelop  her  whole 


298  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

body.  She  felt  Sherbrand's  breath  upon  her  cheek.  .  .  . 
He  said,  speaking  swiftly,  and  close  to  her  ear: 

"No,  you  are  not  a  goddess,  but  something  far  better! 
You  are  a  woman  one  could  worship!  You  could  hate 
magnificently  and  forgive  greatly,  and  love  to  the  very 
verge  of  death !  That  was  said  to  me  of  the  Doctor,  and  you 
are  like  him!" 

"Don't!"  she  said,  wincing.     "You  don't  know  me!" 

He  answered  firmly: 

"  But  I  do  know  you !  I  knew  you  the  moment  I  saw  you 
in  Paris.  You're  the  girl  I  have  been  waiting  for  ever  since 
I  read  Morris's  'Eredwellers'.  You're  The  Friend!  Now 
I've  found  you  I  shall  never  let  you  go  again! " 

What  midsummer  madness  was  this,  prompting  him  to 
sweet  audacity?  His,  "I  shall  never  let  you  go!"  had  a 
convincing,  manly  ring.  She  quickened  her  steps,  wading 
through  a  shallow  sea  of  shadows,  through  which  the  warm 
short  turf  came  up  to  meet  her  feet.  He  kept  by  her  side, 
and  together  they  moved  towards  the  Valkyr-ring  of  fire, 
changing  as  they  advanced  into  isolated  pillars  of  towering 
fiame  outlining  the  huge  white  oval  of  Fanshaw's  landing- 
place.  Here  and  there  the  goblin-like  shapes  moved,  stir- 
ring the  flares  with  rods,  feeding  the  blaze  with  something 
from  vessels  they  carried.  And  two  other  figures  stood  in 
talk  by  the  telegraph-hut,  recognisable,  outlined  against  the 
oblong  of  electric  radiance  framed  by  the  doorway,  as  Sax- 
ham  and  the  Chief. 

"This  is  a  bit  previous,  you  think?  Headlong — ill- 
considered  on  my  part — to  have  spoken  like  this  to  a  girl 
I've  only  met  once  before?  You  must  understand — a  man 
who  follows  a  risky  profession  gets  into  the  way  of  not 
waiting  for  to-morrow,  because  to-day  may  be  the  wind-up. 
Say  you  are  not  angry!"  Sherbrand  pleaded. 

"No,  5^ou  poor  dear  boy!  But  you're  so  awfully  mis- 
taken!" There  was  a  rich  and  exquisite  tenderness,  it 
seemed   to   Sherbrand,   in   the   deep,   full,   breathy   tones. 


A  Night  in  July  299 

"I'm  not  a  bit  what  you  think  me!     There  is  nothing 
worthy  of  worship  in  a  woman  like  me,"  said  Patrine. 

He  asked,  as  they  walked  side  by  side  from  patches  of 
brilliant  blue-white  light  into  deep  oases  of  shadow : 

"May  I  say  more?  May  I  tell  you  that  I've  thought  of 
you  ever  since  that  Paris  night.  .  .  .  What  things  I've 
called  myself — if  you  only  knew! — for  not  getting  your 
address.  But  I  swore  I'd  find  you  somehow,  and  I  would 
have!  I'd  know  your  voice  among  a  thousand.  If  I  were 
blind,  and  forgot  other  people's  faces,  I  should  always  see 
yours  painted  against  the  dark.  At  night — now!  when  I 
shut  my  eyes  .  .  .  there  it  is!     You  are  not  angry?" 

"No — I'm  only  sorry  for  you!"  she  said  in  her  deepest, 
sweetest  tone. 

"Sorry?"  There  was  keen  anxiety  in  the  face  that  was 
illuminated  by  the  petrol-flare  they  were  passing.  "You're 
not — married — or  going  to  be?"  he  asked. 

"Neither!" 

"Thank  God!"  said  Sherbrand  simply  and  sincerely. 
"Now  I'll  go  on!  My  rank  bad  luck  gives  me  a  kind  of 
right.  This  morning  I  got  up  solid  in  the  conviction  that 
you  and  I  were  meant  for  one  another;  that  we  should 
somehow  be  brought  together;  that  the  French  Government 
would  make  it  possible  for  me  to  marry  you  by  buying  my 
hawk-hoverer — for  with  only  the  two  hundred  a  year  my 
uncle  left  me,  and  the  two  hundred  my  Instructorship  here 
brings  me — how  could  I  possibly  have  the  nerve  to  ask  you 
to  be  my  wife?  And — "  He  caught  his  breath,  "And 
everything  I'd  dreamed  came  real.  The  test  succeeded ! — I 
dived  down  out  of  my  sky  to  find  You !  Miracle  of  miracles ! 
And  not  twenty  minutes  later — I  found  myself  nearly,  if 
not  quite — a  ruined  man.  For  if  my  invention  has  been 
swiped  off  to  Germany,  France  will  never  buy,  for  money — 
what  her  neighbour  gets  for  nought!" 

"I    understand.      My   poor   Flying  Man,  you've   been 
plucked  of  some  of  your  wing-feathers!" 


300  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"I  don't  care, if  you'll  wait  for  me  until  they  grow  again ! " 

How  grim  a  day  had  been  followed  by  this  night  of 
wonder!  Woven  of  the  shining  stuff  of  dreams  it  seemed, 
then  and  for  long  years  after,  to  Patrine.  Their  intimacy 
grew  and  ripened  like  a  magic  beanstalk  in  the  light  of  the 
red  moon  and  the  fierce  blue  petrol-flares.  She  said  with  a 
catch  in  her  breath — like  Sherbrand's: 

"You  must  be  serious!" 

"I  never  was  more  so!" 

She  amended: 

"We  must  be  sensible!  Oh!  but  this  has  been  a  close- 
packed  day!" 

"Hasn't  it!"  Sherbrand  agreed,  as  the}'  moved  on  side 
by  side,  from  islands  of  raw,  glaring  light  into  broad  pools 
of  lustreless  darkness,  their  tall  heads  level,  for  Patrine 
carried  her  hat  of  silver  spangles  swinging  from  the  top  of 
the  sunshade  with  the  lengthy  stick.  "Sometimes,  for 
weeks,  the  days  slip  by  smoothly  as  the  beads  of  a  Rosary 
over  a  baby's  finger.  Then — bang-bang-bang !  they  explode 
— like  a  rocket  fired  by  a  signal-jDistol — until  things  fizzle 
out  into  dulness  again.  " 

" It's  true ! "  Her  bosom  rose  in  a  sigh.  "But  it's  possi- 
ble to  get  awfully  fed  up  with  banging  and  fizzling.  One 
can  learn  to  long — just  for  a  little  dulness,  as  long  as  it 
means  quiet  and  rest,  and  peace  of  mind. " 

That  Patrine  should  voice  such  an  aspiration  was  incredi- 
ble even  to  the  speaker.  ''How  changed  I  must  be!''  she 
said  to  herself,  as  Sherbrand  answered  her: 

"With  heathery  moors  and  towering  scaurs,  and  galloping 
trout-rivers  brabbling  over  lichened  boulders — and  Some- 
body one  loves  to  talk  to — one  calls  that  kind  of  dulness  a 
happy  honeymoon!" 

She  thrilled  as  his  hand,  swinging  freely  by  his  hip, 
touched  hers,  lightly,  enclosed,  and  then  released  it.  He 
was  no  tardy  lover,  this  Flying  Man.  He  knew  a  thousand 
times  better  than  von  Herrnung  how  a  girl  should  be  courted 


A  Night  in  July  301 

and  wooed.  For,  with  her  heart  in  joyful  tumult,  and  her 
usually  pale  cheeks  warmed  and  rosy  with  shy  blushes,  it 
was  a  girl  who  walked  beside  Alan  Sherbrand  that  night.  I 
am  sorry  she  could  forget  so  easily  the  slip  that  had  led  her 
over  the  frontier  line,  the  Rubicon  that  can  never  be 
recrossed.  But  in  fact  she  did  forget,  just  as  a  young  man 
would  have  forgotten.  Thotigh  she  was  to  remember  as 
only  a  woman  can  remember,  and  to  suffer  as  only  a  woman 
can. 

In  the  midst  of  the  new,  wonderful  happiness,  so  strangely 
threaded  not  only  for  Patrine,  with  bitter  loss  and  tragic 
possibilities,  she  suffered  a  quite  intolerable  twinge  of 
memory  in  the  sudden  recollection  of  the  boldly-scrutinis- 
ing look  cast  upon  her  by  the  bearded  man  in  the  white 
Naval  uniform.  She  did  not  realise  that  an  imperious 
gesture  of  the  brown  hand,  whose  wrist  had  sported  a 
massive  gold  watch-bracelet,  had  whisked  von  Herrnung  off 
the  scene.  But  she  guessed  that  the  huge  red-haired  Prus- 
sian, bowing  at  the  side  of  the  big  blue  F.I.A.T.,  had 
clicked  his  heels  before  a  master  who  could  break  him  at  his 
will. 

He  had  boasted.  .  .  .  They  knew!  Not  only  the 
bearded  man  whose  look  had  stung  so,  but  the  close-shaven 
old  Colossus  with  the  tortoiseshell-mounted  pince-nez  on  his 
thick  heavy  nose  and  the  huge  wart  on  his  yellow  cheek. 
And  the  sallow  diplomat  in  the  Homburg  hat  shadowing  the 
sly  glance  and  the  moustache  tucked  up  by  a  sinister  smile 
under  his  drooping  Oriental  nose.  They  all  knew.  .  .  . 
Even  the  servant  had  worn  the  leer  that  is  born  of  know- 
ledge, as  he  said  in  his  Teutonic  gutturals: 

"The  lady  is  a  friend  of  the  gentleman  who  brought  her 
here  ..." 

Horrible!  But  she  would  not  remember.  She  banished 
the  hateful,  knowing  faces  with  a  gallant  effort  and  turned 
to  Sherbrand,  asking  whether  he  had  been  an  Eton,  or 
Rugby,  or  Harrow  boy? 


302  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

For  had  her  Flying  Man  borne  the  cachet  of  the  Public 
School  Patrine  Saxham  would  have  infinitely  preferred  it. 
That  it  is  possible  to  be  a  snob  even  in  the  most  tragic  or 
romantic  moment  of  one's  existence,  she  had  not  realised 
before  she  discovered  herself  to  herself  in  this  way. 

"Downside  was  my  school,"  he  said  quite  proudly. 
Patrine  had  no  acquaintance  with  Downside.  "My  father 
would  have  liked  me  to  go  to  Harrow;  but  my  uncle — my 
mother's  brother — who  paid  for  my  education! — being  a 
Catholic,  naturally  preferred  the  place  where  the  Faith 
was  taught.  And  my  mother — as  naturally — shared  his 
preference.  I  was  happy  at  Downside.  The  Fathers  were 
thundering  good  to  me.  I  worked  hard — and  I  played 
hard — and  when  it  wasn't  Swot,  or  cricket,  or  football,  or 
fives,  or  boxing,  it  was  the  making  of  flying-sticks,  just 
shaved  laths  with  paper  wings,  at  first — and  then  a  dodge 
much  more  ambitious,  a  model  Wright  in  varnished  card, 
with  a  propeller  worked  by  a  rubber  release.  .  .  .  My 
father  was  pleased  at  my  being  a  chip  of  the  old  block  in 
my  turn  for  mechanics.  But  when  I  wouldn't  go  up  for 
Woolwich — when  I  entered  at  Strongitharm's  College  of 
Engineering  on  Tyneside,  and  spent  two  years  at  Folsom's 
Works  at  Sunderland — he  rather  gave  me  up,  I  fancy,  as  a 
low-minded  kind  of  cad.  " 

He  shook  himself  as  though  to  shake  off  the  adverse 
paternal  judgment. 

"I  had  my  reasons  for  not  going  in  for  the  Army,  though 
I  love  it.  They  weren't  easy  to  explain,  and  so  I  didn't  try. 
But  my  father  never  liked  the  idea  of  my  being  a  civil 
engineer.  Even  my  mother,  and  my  uncle — dear  old  fellow 
— he  understands  me  better  now!" 

"Why?" 

"Because  he's  dead!"  said  Sherbrand  simply,  "and  the 
Holy  Souls  know  everything!" 

"The  Holy  Souls?"  By  the  glare  of  the  flare-light  her 
puzzled  eyes  questioned  him. 


A  Night  in  July  303 

"The  Holy  Souls  in  Purgatory.  They're  privileged  to 
help  us.  We  help  them — by  praying  for  them.  It's — a 
spiritual  intercommunication — a  kind  of  endless  chain, 
A  circuit  of  influence,  received  and  transmitted,  not  by 
etheric  flashes,  but  by  a  medium  more  subtle.  Prayer — in 
a  word!" 

His  bright-winged  intellect  had  outstripped  her  heavier, 
duller  intelligence.  She  suddenly  felt  like  a  caterpillar  on  a 
cabbage-leaf,  slow-moving,  groping,  but  dimly  conscious  of 
a  distant  affinity  with  the  jewel-winged  butterfly  hovering 
high  in  golden  air.  .  .  . 

' '  Prayer,''  she  repeated  dully, ' '  do  you  believe  in  prayer  ? ' ' 

"Naturally!"  said  Sherbrand — "since  I  believe  in  God. 
Do  not  you?  ..." 

"I  hardly " 

In  the  ensuing  pause  Patrine  had  a  brief  retrospective 
vision  of  the  curate  who  had  prepared  her  for  Confirmation, 
and  who  had  talked  of  the  Almighty  as  though  He  were  a 
crotchety  but  benevolent  old  man.  And  last  time  she  had 
been  to  Church — a  fashionably  attended  High  Church  in 
the  West  End — another  curate  in  a  black  cassock  and  tufted 
biretta  had  preached  about  the  'Par  of  Card,  the  baptismal 
dar  of  Grace,  the  bar  of  flars,'  in  which  our  first  parents 
dwelt  in  Eden,  'the  fatal  ar'  in  which  they  sinned,  and  the 
'shar  of  tars'  with  which  Eve  lamented  her  fall. 

"No, "  she  said  bluntly,  "I  don't  think  I  believe  in  God  at 
all  now,  though  it  sometimes  seems  as  though  there  must 
be  Somebody  behind  things! — Somebody  who  punishes — 
Somebody  who  laughs!  As  for  a  religion,  I  don't  suppose 
I've  ever  had  one.    Oh,  yes ! — my  religion  is  Aunt  Lynette ! " 

K  mental  picture  of  Lynette,  years  ago  in  the  Harley 
Street  nursery,  teaching  a  curly-headed  baby  Bawne  to  say 
his  evening  prayer,  while  a  great  galumphing  girl  stood  in 
the  doorway  and  looked  and  listened,  rose  up  and  brought 
with  it  the  horrible  choking  sensation.  She  fought  with  it 
as  Sherbrand  said : 


304  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"I  think  you  are  speaking  of  Mrs.  Saxham?  Well,  one 
must  have  a  star  to  hitch  one's  waggon  to.  And  she  is  a 
star — if  ever  I  saw  one !  A  woman  with  a  face  like  a  Dona- 
tello  Madonna,  or  a  tall  lily  growing  in  the  garden-cloisters 
of  some  Italian  mountain-convent,  and  who  has  the  Faith, — 
ought  to  be  able  to  teach  you  to  believe  in  God !  Why  not 
ask  her?  I  once  knelt  in  a  Church  near  her,  and  saw  her 
praying.  She  seemed — very  close  to  what  Norman  or 
someone  else  called  the  Eternal  Verities." 

"She  will  be  nearer  still,  "  said  Patrine  with  sudden,  sav- 
age roughness,  "if  anything  happens— if  Bawne  is  killed! 
She  will  die  of  a  broken  heart ! " 

"Then  why  not  pray, "  argued  Sherbrand,  "that  she  may 
get  him  back  again  ?  Why  not  try  it  ?  There's  nothing  else 
that  helps  so  well!" 

Pray ! ' '  The  tall  girl  stopped  short  and  swung  round  on 
liim,  facing  him.  A  moment  since  they  had  walked  like 
lovers.  Now  the  spell  was  broken — at  all  events,  for  the 
time. 

"Pray — pray!"  she  mocked.  "Am  I  a  sneak? — to  pray 
when  I  don't  believe  in  prayer !  And  if  I  did  believe,  God — 
if  He  exists — would  not  hear  me.  Even  the  parsons  own 
He  has  His  favourites.  I  am  not  one  of  them.  ...  I  am 
one  of  His  forgets  I" 


XL 

MACROMBIE    IS    SACKED 

Tall,  lithe,  vigorous,  masterful,  they  confronted  each 
other  across  the  gulf  that  suddenly  opened  between  them — 
the  bottomless  chasm  that  yawns  between  Faith  and  Un- 
belief. 

In  the  fitful  uncanny  light,  the  darker  side  of  Patrine 
started  into  sinister  prominence.  Her  defiant  face  was 
masked  by  shadow,  but  the  fierce  vibrating  voice  and 
towering  shape  had  something  of  the  fallen  angel.  Had 
wide  sable  pinions  sprung  and  bannered  from  her  shoulders, 
Sherbrand  would  hardly  have  been  surprised. 

"  Let  us  draw  the  line  at  that.  If  we  are  to  be  friends — 
and  I  would  like  us  to  be ! — agree  to  it !  But  since  you  have 
what  I  have  not — you  would  call  it  Faith,  no  doubt,"  he 
guessed  the  wide  mouth  curving  in  a  jeering  smile,  "there  is 
nothing  to  prevent  you  from  praying  for  Aunt  Lynette  and 
for  Bawne  too!  Unless  you  are  the  kind  of  physician  who 
draws  the  line  at  taking  his  own  drugs!" 

If  she  had  thought  to  disconcert  Sherbrand  she  erred. 
He  said  instantly : 

"  I  give  you  my  word  of  Honour  that  I  will  pray  for  them! 
But  there  is  one  other  person  much  dearer  to  me  than  either. 
You  don't  ask  me  for  her,  but  all  the  same  ..." 

"You  kind,  dear  boy!     Pray  for  me  all  you  want  to!" 

She  was  his  big,  smiling  girl  of  the  Milles  Plaisirs,  and  the 
Pat  young  Bawne  worshipped,  as  she  stretched  out  her 
beautiful,  massive  arm  and  offered  him  a  cordial  hand. 

"Shake,  Mister!     Making  love  to  me  one  minute  and 
bally-ragging  me  the  next!  .  .  .     Great  Scott!     Ah! — I've 
said  it  again — and  I  gave  you  my  word  I'd  not!" 
2°  305 


3o6  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

He  took  the  hand  in  a  close  grasp,  sought  for  the  other 
and  took  it  also.  .  .  . 

"Thank  you!  Why,  how  you're  shivering!  You  have 
nothing  but  that  feather  thing  over  your  thin  gown !  Wait 
half  a  minute — I'll  get  you  a  wrap!" 

He  was  gone  in  an  instant,  leaving  her  standing  on  the 
border-line  of  one  of  the  oases  of  black- velvet  shadow, 
swayed  by  the  violence  of  her  emotion  as  some  tall  young 
birch  might  have  been  shaken  by  the  fury  of  a  south-west 
gale. 

His  touch,  .  .  .  She  had  not  dreamed.  .  .  ,  Her  head 
drooped,  and  a  long  sigh  went  fluttering  after  him  into  the 
darkness,  like  some  night-moth  whose  wings  are  wrought  of 
hues  more  gorgeous  than  the  peacock  butterfly's,  whose 
scent  is  on  the  alert,  and  whose  diamond  eyes  pierce  the 
blackest  midnight  in  search  of  the  partner  of  its  kind. 

A  footstep  she  knew  approached.  A  familiar  voice  called 
her: 

"  Uncle  Owen. "  The  spell  broke.  Her  mind  leaped  up 
alert  and  quivering.     "Have  you  any  news — of  Bawne?" 

"I  have  news!" 

"Not " 

"Not  the  worst  news,"  said  Saxham's  harsh  voice,  "but 
not — hopeful ! " 

' '  They  are  not  comi ng  back  ? ' '  She  strove  to  set  her  heel 
on  the  treacherous  hope  that  he  would  say  No!  For  how 
could  she  bring  herself  to  desire  the  enemy's  return.  And 
yet  the  thought  of  Bawne  was  a  stab  of  anguish  in  her 
bosom.     What  was  the  Doctor  saying? 

"The  last  definite  intelligence  received  of  them  confirms 
the  certainty  that  Captain  von  Herrnung  is  now  over  the 
North  Sea.  He  alighted  nowhere;  that  we  have  positively 
learned  from  many  different  news-centres.  A  tractor- 
monoplane  answering  to  the  description  and  carrying  two 
passengers  passed  the  Bull  Light  on  Spurn  Head,  at  a  few 


Macrombie  is  Sacked  307 

minutes  before  eight.  The  lighthouse-keeper  signalled  that 
bad  weather  might  be  expected.  The  pilot  paid  no  atten- 
tion.    And  later  on " 

As  Saxham  spoke,  with  that  strange  hoarseness,  Patrine 
took  his  arm  tremblingly.  Her  heart  plunged  as  though 
it  would  burst  its  prison  as  the  Doctor  went  on: 
'  "An  hour  or  more  later  a  Wireless  came  in.  It  had  been 
sent  on  to  Sir  Roland  from  the  Admiralty! — I  will  not 
puzzle  you  with  technical  details.  But  at  8.30  the  ofhcer 
on  duty  on  the  upper-bridge  of  the  second-in-line  of  a 
Battle  Squadron  steaming  through  Northern  Waters  on  the 
way  to  a  Southern  rendezvous,  reported  having  heard  an 
aeroplane  pass  overhead,  crossing  the  course  of  the  Squad- 
ron diagonally — apparently  flying  due  east " 

Saxham  added: 

"The  aviator  made  no  signal  for  assistance.  But  the 
engine-beat  told  of  trouble  developing.  .  .  .  There  is 
nothing  to  do  but  wait  and  hope!" 

What  had  really  happened  on  board  H.M.S.  Rigasamos, 
maintaining  her  appointed  speed  of  fifteen  knots,  and  her 
statutory  two-cable-lengths  from  the  stern  of  the  Flagship 
ahead,  and  the  bows  of  the  sister-ship  following  her,  had 
been  that  as  the  ship's  band  struck  into  The  Roast  Beef  of 
Old  England,  and  the  Owner  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  the 
Ward-room  mess-table,  his  Second  in  Command  on  the 
fore-bridge  got  a  speaking-tube  message  from  the  Navigat- 
ing Lieutenant  on  the  upper-bridge,  to  say  that  the  drone 
of  an  aeroplane,  flying  at  about  four  hundred  overhead, 
had  been  picked  up  by  Warrant  Officer  So-and-So,  of 
the  gun  and  searchlight  control,  per  medium  of  the 
microphone. 

The  Second  in  Command  called  back  through  the  voice- 
tube: 

"An  aeroplane.  .  .  .  You're  sure?  Could  hear  her 
racket  myself,  without  assistance.     But  put  it  down  to  a 


3o8  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Fleet  Seaplane  taking  a  flip  round  the  Squadron  for  exer- 
cise, or  one  of  the  Goody-Two-Shoes  from  the  R.N.A.S. 
Station  at  Rosforth,  blown  out  to  sea  doing  Coast  Patrol." 

An  answer  rumbled  down  the  pipe: 

"It  was  an  aero  all  right,  sir!  The  rattle  of  her  floats  'ud 
have  given  away  a  Goody.  .  .  .  Travelling  east  against 
the  side-drive  of  a  forty-mile-an-hour  north-west  gale.  .  .  . 
And  with  engine  trouble  well  developed.  Missing  and 
back-firing  like  the  gayest  kind  of  hell!" 

The  Second  in  Command  took  his  ear  from  the  mouth  of 
the  speaking-tube,  and  with  a  glance  that  included  the 
figures  of  his  Sub-Lieutenant,  the  Midshipman,  signalmen, 
and  lookouts  at  their  posts  swung  into  the  chart-house  and 
logged  the  occurrence  in  the  plain  language  of  the  sea.  The 
clock  told  8.35  P.M.  as  he  finished,  capped  his  fountain  pen, 
and  slipped  it  in  an  inside  pocket,  soliloquising: 

"Travelling  east  against  a  forty-mile-an-hour  gale  from 
the  north-west,  and  with  engine-trouble  to  top  up  with 
.  .  .  Little  Willie  will  be  seeing  the  angels  pretty  soon  at 
this  rate!  Or  piling  himself  up  somewhere  on  the  coast  of 
Holland!     Wonder  who  the  bally  idiot  is?" 

Saxham  continued,  and  now  he  croaked  as  hoarsely  as  a 
raven : 

"  Sir  Roland  has  little  doubt  that  the  aeroplane  heard  on 
the  Rigasamos  was  Sherbrand's  'Bird  of  War.'  If  so,  there 
would  be  very  little  hope  left,  unless  it  had  been  previously 
arranged  that  a  vessel  belonging  to — a  foreign  Power ! — was 
to  watch  for  and  give  help  if  she  should  require  it.  Now 
you  know  as  much  as  I  do.  I  have  telephoned  to  both  Lady 
Beauvayse  and  your  mother  that  you  return  with  me  to 
Harley  Street.  We  shall  go  presently.  First,  I  want  you 
to  speak  on  the  telephone  to  Lynette." 

"To— Lynette!"  Patrine  breathed.  The  Doctor  told 
her:  "I  have  kept  the  worst  from  Lynette  hitherto.  .  .  . 
I  shall  do  so  until  the  ultimate  hope  is  abandoned.     My 


Macrombie  is  Sacked  309 

wife  knows  my  voice  so  well.  .  .  .  You  understand.  .  .  . 
She  would  suspect  something  ..." 

His  voice  stumbled  and  broke.  And  clinging  to  the  arm 
of  the  big  man  standing  quietly  beside  her,  potent  in  inertia 
as  a  lump  of  raw  iron,  Patrine  realised  that  her  anguish 
was  a  drop  in  the  ocean  of  his.  She  took  his  hand  and  said 
in  a  tone  he  had  never  before  heard  from  her: 

' '  Come,  dear !     We  will  go  and  speak  to  her  now. " 

So  they  went  across  to  the  telegraph-cabin,  raw  with 
unshaded  electric  light  and  littered  with  papers.  The 
Chief  was  there,  looking  livid  and  careworn,  leaning  one 
elbow  on  the  edge  of  the  stand  that  supported  the  Wireless, 
and  wearing  the  telephone  head-band  with  the  ear-pieces, 
as  he  dictated  to  the  pallid  clerk  who  occupied  a  Windsor 
chair  at  a  stained  deal  desk,  and  wrote  with  a  spluttering 
pen  on  a  depleted  paper-pad.  At  first  sight  there  seemed 
to  be  nothing  else  in  the  place  but  a  low  voice  speaking,  a 
Railway  Key  instrument,  a  file  for  telegrams  and  an  over- 
powering odour  of  rum. 

The  odour  of  rum  consolidated  to  Patrine's  view  into  a 
stocky  thickset  man  with  a  square  heavy  yellow  face  set 
into  a  tragic  mask  of  despair.  It  was  Macrombie,  ex- 
Petty  Officer  telegraphist,  whom  the  Royal  Navy  had 
spat  forth  for  being  D.O.D.  fifteen  full  years  before.  Sacked 
now  from  his  civil  employment,  for  the  old  glaring,  unbHnk- 
able  offence. 

The  liquor  had  barely  faded  out  in  him;  his  breath  came 
across  the  little  cabin  like  a  flaming  sword,  and  his  eyes 
under  their  beetling  coal-black  eyebrows  looked  burnt-out. 
He  rose  from  the  debilitated  office-stool  he  had  been  sitting 
on,  saluted  Patrine  stiffly  and  said : 

"  Mem,  this  is  no  place  for  a  leddy,  wi'  a  drucken  wastrel 
like  mysel'  in  it.  Ay !  I  hae  lat  owcr  a  drap  too  mony,  I  am 
awa'  the  noo  wi'  my  weicht  o'  wyte.  But  no  wi'oot  a 
warstle  have  I  yielded  to  the  Enemy ! "     His  anguish  broke 


3IO  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  flood-gates  in  a  rumbling  roar.  "Like  Job  I  hae  cried 
oot  in  the  nicht-watches  to  my  Creator,  speiring  o'  Him 
why  He  made  weak  men  an'  strong  rum?  He  didna'  gie 
me  ony  answer — and  I  am  ganging  down  the  Broad  Road's 
fast  as  my  bluidy  thirrst  can  carry  me — a  disgraced  and 
ruined  man!" 

* '  Mr.  Sherbrand  will  give  you  another  chance.  I  know 
he  will! — I'll  ask  him!"  came  impetuously  in  the  big  warm 
womanly  baritone. 

"You're  a  grand  woman  to  luik  at,  and  the  lad'll  gie  in — 
an'  the  haill  deil's  dance  to  begin  ance  mair.  .  .  .  Na,  na, 
my  bonny  leddy!"  said  Macrombie,  "ye  can  never  lippen 
to  the  promises  o'  a  drunkard.  Best  lat  me  gang  my  gait 
to  muckle  Hell.  Ay!  I'll  no'  be  lonesome  there  for  want  o' 
company.  .  .  .  Toch!  what  a  regiment  o'  Macrombies 
deid  an'  damned  will  answer  'Present'  to  auld  Satan's  roll- 
call  !     Guid-nicht,  my  leddy,  an'  thanks  to  ye  a'  the  same." 

He  took  his  cap  from  a  peg,  and  from  the  corner  a  bundle 
of  miscellaneous  possessions,  rolled  up  in  apparently  a  worn 
alpaca  ofhce-coat,  and  girt  about  with  knotted  string.  He 
saluted  the  Chief  and  Saxham,  and  nodded  to  the  telegraph 
clerk,  and  went  out  of  the  cabin  in  a  plodding  kind  of  hurry 
as  though  no  grass  should  grow  under  his  feet  before  he  set 
them  for  good  upon  the  dreadful  downward  Road. 

His  vice  had  played  into  an  enemy's  hands,  and  he  would 
trust  himself  no  longer.  He  meted  out  judgment  to  rum- 
soaked  Macrombie,  assuming  for  himself  the  prerogative  of 
the  One  Judge.  But  he  got  his  chance  in  spite  of  himself, 
when  Britain's  Hour  came. 


CHAPTER  XLI 


SAXHAM   LIES 


At  Saxham's  nod  Patrine  rang  up  Lynette,  and  the 
familiar  voice  that  came  back,  spun  out  to  a  spider-thread  of 
sweetness  across  the  distance,  stabbed  the  listener  to  the 
heart  like  a  delicate  blade  of  gold-wrought  steel.  It  said, 
with  a  quiver  in  it : 

"Of  course,  I  am  not  nervous  at  all.  And  I  know  how 
much  Bawne  would  enjoy  the  night-flying.  But  if  Owen 
were  not  there,  perhaps  I  might  be — afraid  that  something 
was  wrong.     Owen!" 

"Say  that  I  am  here,"  the  Doctor  signed,  and  Patrine 
obeyed. 

"Tell  my  darling  to  speak  to  me,"  said  the  voice,  and 
Patrine,  dropping  the  microphone  from  suddenly  useless 
fingers,  saw  Saxham  take  it  and  force  his  stiff  white  lips  to 
speech : 

"It  is  not  possible — just  at  this  moment.  You  for- 
get " 

"Of  course  .  .  .     The  fireworks!" 

"Just  so.  The  fireworks.  Expect  us  in  another  hour. 
And — Patrine  is  here  and  coming  back  to  Harley  Street. 
To  stay.  Please  tell  Mrs.  Keyse  and  Janey  to  get  a  room 
ready. " 

The  cordial  answer  came : 

"I  will  at  once.  Dear  Pat!  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  have 
her!" 

"This  is  Patrine  speaking  now!" 

Saxham's  steady  hand- touched  Patrine's  in  transferring 
:the  receiver  of  the  telephone,  and  the  chill  of  it  stung  like 

311 


312  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  touch  of  death.     She  could  sot  control  her  trembling  as 
she  answered: 

"You  are  always  so  kind  to  me,  dear  Aunt  Lynette!" 

"No,  dear!  In  an  hour,  then?  Take  care  of  my 
precious,"  the  sweet  voice  pleaded,  "until  I  see  you 
both  ..." 

"Yes— yes!" 

Saxham's  hand  hung  up  the  receiver,  rang  off,  and 
steadied  Patrine,  whose  knees  were  melting  under  her 
weight : 

"Don't  ask  me  .  .  .  any  more  .  .  .  I — can't!"  she 
begged  of  him  brokenly.  He  said,  and  with  those  deep  lines 
that  showed  in  his  hard  grey  face,  and  his  light  eyes  staring 
haggardly  from  caves  that  grief  had  dug  about  them, 
Saxham  looked  older  by  twenty  years : 

"  I  know  it  was  hard,  but  the  thing  had  got  to  be  done- 
How  could  I  bludgeon  her  with  the  truth,  whispered  over  a 
wire?  Once  face  to  face,  the  first  glimpse  of  me  will  show 
her  that  I  have  lied  to  her.  God  help  me!"  said  the  Dop 
Doctor;  "  I  told  her  I  had  stayed  on  here  with  Bawne  to  give 
him  the  treat  of  seeing  a  night-flying  display." 

"How — horribly  clever  of  you!" 

"So  clever,"  Saxham  answered  harshly,"  that  I  shall  prob- 
ably regret  it  to  the  end  of  my  days.  In  the  whole  of  my 
practice  I  have  never  known  a  well-meant  deceit  do  any 
good — rather  the  opposite.  Consequently,  I  preach  to 
my  patients  Truth  before  everything — and  break  down  and 
lie  when  my  own  turn  comes — like  the  damned  coward  I 
am." 

"We  shall  leave  here  now  in  a  few  minutes, "  went  on  the 
Doctor,  glowering  at  his  chronometer.  ' '  I  sent  Keyse  away 
with  the  car  upon  a  message.  He  will  be  here  to  take  us 
home  to  Harley  Street  at  half -past  nine.  You  have  ample 
time  to  telephone  to  Berkeley  Square  for  your  clothes  and 
so  on.  .  .  .  Lady  Beauvayse's  maid  can  pack  them  for 
you,  I  presume?" 


Saxham  Lies  3^3 

"Oh,  yes.  She's  decent  in  the  way  of  doing  things  for 
me." 

"Very  well." 

The  Doctor  left  the  telegraph-hut,  and  Patrine  'phoned  to 
Berkeley  Square.  Then,  with  a  sudden  recollection  of  an 
appointment  which  must  be  cancelled,  she  gave  the  number 
that  meant  Margot's  newly-furnished  mansion,  and  pres- 
ently heard  the  little  bird-Hke  voice  chirping : 

"Yes,  this  is  oo,  Cadogan  Place.  I'm  Lady  Norwater! 
.  .  .  Is  that  you,  Pat?  Yes?  What  cheer?  .  .  .  I'm 
having  a  long,  deadly  domestic  evening.  Franky's  reading 
an  improving  book  aloud  to  me — at  least  he  was  when  you 
rang  up — 'Matrimony  for  Beginners.  A  Handbook  to 
Happiness, '  it's  called.  But  I  don't  believe  the  man  who 
wrote  it  ever  had  a  live  wife. " 

"  Probably  not.  Margot,  pet,  I  can't  possibly  lunch  with 
you  to-morrow!" 

"  Don't  say  you  back  out  because  of  the  book!  Fits  has 
got  it  now  under  the  sofa. "  Fits  was  Franky's  lady  bull- 
terrier.  ' '  And  by  the  time  she's  done  with  it  there  won't  be 
much  left.  Say  you'll  come!"  Margot  urged.  "Franky's 
got  to  test  a  new  car — so  Rhona  Helvellyn's  coming  with 
two  or  three  Militant  pals  of  hers.  I'll  give  you  lobster 
Americaine  and  cold  lamb  in  mint  aspic — and  strawberry 
mousse.     There!" 

"I'm  frightfully  sorry,  my  dinkie,  but  it  simply  can't 
be!" 

"What  tosh!  And  we're  going  to  talk  over  ideas  for 
speeches  at  the  Monster  Meeting  of  Women  in  October  at 
the  Royal  Hall.  And  Rhona  has  a  Grand  Slam  in  the 
way  of  surprises — did  she  say  anything  to  you  about  the 
Mansion  House  Banquet  demonstration  she's  thought  of 
for  Monday  night?" 

"Yes,  and  I'm  down  on  it — like  houses!"  declared 
Patrine.  "  Is  Rhona  really  spoiUng  for  a  taste  of  skilly  and 
yard-exercise?    Don't  you  get  mixed  up.    Think  of  Franky 


314 


That  Which  Hath  Wings 


reading  the  paragraphs:  'Popular  Young  Peeress  on  the 
Suffrage  War-Path.  Society  Beauty  Heckles  the 
Lord  Mayor!  Viscountess  Norwater  bursts  upon 
Banqueting  Bishops,  in  the  Character  of  a  Woman 
who  wants  a  Vote!'  " 

Patrine  called  good-bye  and  rang  off,  turning  with  the 
smile  upon  her  lips  to  see  Sherbrand  standing  behind  her 
with  a  long  white  coat  upon  his  arm. 

"I  have  brought  you  a  wrap.  A  lady  forgot  it  here  the 
other  day.     Let  me  help  you  to  put  it  on.  " 

Patrine  shivered  as  he  drew  the  large  loose  garment  round 
her.  It  was  a  white  Malta  blanket-coat,  very  soft  and 
fleecy  and  warm. 

"Shall  we  have  another  turn  on  the  Grounds  before  the 

Doctor's  car "     Sherbrand  was  beginning,  when  the 

Chief  removed  the  Wireless  head-band  and  came  forward. 

"Miss  Saxham,  I  must  detain  you  for  a  minute,  I  am 
afraid." 

Sherbrand  went  out  of  the  hut.  At  a  sign  the  pale  clerk 
evaporated.  Sir  Roland  moved  nearer  to  Patrine.  How 
old  he  looked!  she  thought. 

'  *  You  are  done  up !     Esquinte,  aren't  you  ? ' 

"I  am  tired,  but  neither  done  up  nor  the  other  thing. 
Miss  Saxham,  you  just  now  put  me  in  possession  of  the 
details  of  a  Suffragist  plot.  The  friend  of  a  friend  of  yours, 
backed  by  some  other  viragoes  of  the  militant  order,  intends 
— I  quote  your  own  words! — to  a  bid  for  a  diet  of  skilly, 
and  prison-yard  exercise,  by  interrupting  the  after-dinner 
speakers  at  the  Mansion  House  Banquet  on  Monday  night. 
Kindly  let  her  know  from  me  that  the  stewards  will  be  pre- 
pared to  prevent  her  doing  so, — and  tell  her  that  women  will 
never  make  successful  conspirators  until  they  learn  to  hold 
their  tongues!  Now,  good-night.  Your  incautiousness 
has  rendered  Miss  Helvellyn  a  service.  She  will  bless  it 
one  day  if  she  doesn't  now.  " 

He  took  Patrine's  hand  in  his  frank,  strong  clasp.     The 


Saxham  Lies  315 

haggard  lines  on  the  keen  bronzed  face  did  not  mar  the 
beauty  of  its  kindliness. 

"You  have  given  her  a  chance.  Let's  hope  she  makes 
the  most  of  it.  To  herd  with  the — wild  she-asses  isn't  the 
way  to  serve  her  sex.  Rowdiness  and  shrieking  will  never 
get  the  Vote  for  Women.  Burning  down  empty  country- 
houses  won't  land  a  female  Member  in  the  House  of  Parlia- 
ment. It  isn't  Propaganda  to — behave  like  an  improper 
goose.  Mind  you  tell  her!  That  you,  Saxham?"  as  a  tall 
figure  came  towards  them  out  of  the  glimmering  darkness 
fitfully  splashed  by  the  petrol-flares  now  burnt  down  and 
dying  out.  Best  take  your  niece  home  to  Harley  Street, 
she  is  thoroughly  tired.  Sherbrand  and  myself  and  Mr. 
Burgin  here  are  good  for  hours  yet." 


CHAPTER  XLII 


SAXHAM  BREAKS  THE  NEWS 


"Owen!  ..." 

Lynette  was  dressed  in  a  delicate,  filmy  black  chiffon 
dinner-gown,  and  as  Saxham's  latch-key  clicked  in  the  front 
door-lock  and  she  rose  up  out  of  the  tail  carved  armchair 
that  stood  beside  the  large  hall  fireplace,  her  paleness 
seemed  to  diffuse  light,  like  the  whiteness  of  the  moon. 

"Owen  ...     Heisnot  .   .  .     What  ..." 

Her  wide  bright  glance  went  past  the  tall  wrapped-up 
figure  of  Patrine  to  the  taller  shape  that  bulked  behind  her. 
No  small  active  boy -form  danced  in  its  wake.  She  put  out 
her  arms,  groping  blindly — swayed  and  would  have  fallen, 
but  that  Saxham  strode  past  Patrine,  caught  the  slender 
figure  in  his  powerful  embrace,  turned  and  carried  his  wife 
away  down  the  short  corridor  that  led  to  the  consulting- 
room. 

"Miss  Pat,  my  dear!  There's  cold  supper  all  laid  an' 
ready  waitin'  in  the  dining-room.  By  the  Doctor's  special 
orders,  and  I  was  to  see  you  eat." 

Thus  Mrs.  Keyse,  now  for  years  housekeeper  at  Harley 
Street,  a  little  light-haired  woman,  common  of  speech  and 
innocent  of  grammar,  but  a  pearl  of  price  in  the  Doctor's 
estimation  and  her  mistress's  right  hand. 

"  Don't  say  they  fed  you  at  'Endon  on  'am  and  salad  an' 
pigeon-pie.  Trash  is  the  word,"  said  Mrs.  Keyse,  "for 
resturong  pastry,  and  them  there  piegeons,  if  language 
could  be  given  'em,  would  bear  me  out  in  what  I  say.  " 

But  Patrine  refused  baked  meats,  submitting  to  be 
escorted  to  her  room  and  tenderly  fussed  over  by  the  kind, 
Cockney-tongued  little  woman,   and  yellow-haired  pink- 

316 


Saxham  Breaks  the  News  317 

cheeked  thirteen-year-old  Janey,  out  of  whose  small  tri- 
angular face  looked  the  honest  grey  eyes  of  W.  Keyse. 

Both  Mrs.  Keyse  and  Janey  had  been  crying,  for  Kej'se, 
who  acted  as  the  Doctor's  chauffetir,  had  broken  bad  news 
in  the  kitchen-regions.  Master  Bawne,  according  to  Keyse, 
had  been  taken  for  a  trip  in  one  of  them  Hairos  by  a  German 
flying-bloke,  and  it  was  feared — not  having  returned  or 
been  heard  of — that  Something  or  Other  had  gone  wrong. 

Mrs.  Keyse,  a  born  optimist,  rejected  the  idea  of  accident 
or  casualty  with  ringing  sniffs  of  incredulity.  Master 
Bawne,  the  blessed  dear!  had  prob'ly  binkidnup'  by  some 
foreign  Nobleman  wanting  a  Nair.  Trust  a  German,  Mrs. 
Keyse  would  never!  having  when  a  young  woman  in  service 
at  Alexandra  Crescent,  Kentish  Town,  N.  W.,  been  treated 
something  frightful  by  a  young  man  who  travelled  in  shav- 
ing-sets of  German  silver  and  other  fancy  articles  of  Teuton 
origin.  Keyse  must  often  have  heard  her  mention  That 
There  Green? 

Keyse  responded,  lighting  his  pipe,  for  his  wife  and 
daughter  had  accompanied  him  to  their  own  private  par- 
lour in  the  basement,  looking  out  across  the  yard  to  the 
garage  over  which  Billy  and  Janey  had  been  born: 

"Twice  a  day  since  you  and  me  stood  up  before  the 
dodger  to  git  married.  But  you  never  tipped  me  as  'ow 
the  bloke  was  a  bloomin'  Fritzer  before.  'Ow  do  you  make 
it  out?  Switch  me  on  to  the  notion!  'Cos  o'  somethink 
in  the  German  nickel  'c  drummed  in  gettin'  into  'im  an' 
affectin'  'is  blood?" 

Mrs.  Keyse,  impervious  to  sarcasm  as  incapable  of 
grammar,  maintained  that  the  subject  under  discussion 
had  spoke  wiv'  a  Naxent  particularly  noticeable  when 
upset.  Broker  EngHsh,  in  moments  of  passion,  with  red 
eyes  and  white  'air  simpular  to  one  o'  them  Verbenas,  had  in 
conjunction  with  a  decided  bent  towards  bigamy,  and  an 
appetite  for  other  people's  savings,  distinguished  That 
There  Green. 


3i8  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

W.  Keyse  and  Janey  went  off  to  bed,  and  the  other  ser- 
vants, instructed  through  the  Doctor's  consulting-room 
speaking-pipe,  shut  up  the  house  and  retired,  all  save  the 
night-maid  who  answered  the  telephone,  and  attended  to 
the  midnight  rings  at  the  hall-door.  But  Mrs.  Keyse  did 
not  follow  the  household.  The  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Saxham 
were  still  shut  up  together  in  the  consulting-room.  Mrs. 
Keyse  owned  to  herself  that  she  had  talked  all  that  rubbage 
about  That  There  Green  and  cetra,  to  hide  that  her  heart 
was  as  water  in  her  bosom,  and  that  she  trimbled  and 
shook  all  over  after  the  fashion  of  them  Fancy  shapes  of 
Chicken  in  Haspeck,  or  Coffin  cream,  or  Blue  Mange 
coloured  with  Scotch  Anneal. 

It  grew  late  and  later.  The  flares  on  the  Flying  Ground, 
many  times  renewed,  had  died  down  to  greasy  black  ash  in 
the  scorched  and  dented  buckets,  before  there  was  a  move- 
ment or  a  sound  in  the  dark  consulting-room.  Then  the 
woman  who  sat  in  the  chair  sighed,  and  the  long  quivering 
breath  she  drew,  stirred  the  thick  hair  of  the  man  who 
knelt  upon  the  floor  before  her,  holding  her  in  his  arms. 

"Owen!" 

"My  wife!" 

The  sigh  that  had  escaped  her  seemed  to  flutter  through 
the  unlighted  room  like  some  dusky-winged  creature  of  the 
darkness.  She  leaned  her  face  upon  his  brow,  pressing  her 
lips  upon  the  smooth  place  above  the  broad  meeting  eye- 
brows. The  first  kiss  she  had  ever  given  Saxham  had  been 
placed  just  there.  Now  the  sweet  lips  were  cold.  He  could 
feel  how  the  delicate  white  teeth  were  set  behind  them. 
Had  she  relaxed  her  grip  upon  herself  he  knew  she  must 
have  cried  aloud.  Nor  could  he  help  her  save  by  his  sus- 
taining hold,  and  the  silence  of  a  grief  only  equalled  by  her 
own.  Thus  they  had  remained,  speechless  through  the 
hours;  drawn  closer  than  ever  by  the  anguish  of  mutual 
loss. 


Saxham  Breaks  the  News  319 

Now  she  stirred  in  Saxham's  arms,  and  spoke  collect- 
edly: 

"Tell  me  Bawne  is  not — dead!  Give  me  courage  to  go 
on  waiting.  And  yet,  do  not  help  me  to  deceive  myself  or 
you,  with  a  false  hope." 

"If  the  worst  had  happened,"  said  Saxham,  almost 
appealingly,  "should  we  not  have  known  it?" 

She  breathed  between  stiff  lips,  trying  to  control  her 
shuddering : 

"Twice  to-night  I  have  heard  him  call  me:  'Mother !'  and 
then  again,  'Mother!'  Now  I  feel" — she  closed  her  eyes 
and  opened  them  widely,  staring  through  the  darkness — 
"that  he  is  wanting  me! — wanting  you! — as  he  never  has 
before.  We  were  always  near  till  now — he  could  not  realise 
what  parting  meant!" 

She  fought  with  sobs,  and  the  tears  she  could  not  keep 
back  fell  in  the  darkness  on  her  husband's  face.  His  own 
were  mingled  with  them.  Perhaps  she  knew  it,  as  she  wiped 
them  away  with  a  touch  that  was  a  caress,  saying: 

"We  must  not  give  in!  We  must  not  fail  him!  To 
abandon  hope  too  soon  would  be  to  fail!" 

Courage  had  come  to  her  with  the  paling  of  the  stars  and 
the  greying  in  the  East  that  meant  the  dayspring.  She 
was  full  of  solicitude  for  Saxham's  weariness,  as  he  rose  up 
stiffly  as  a  knight  who  has  watched  his  armour  through  the 
long  hours,  kneeling  on  the  threshold  of  the  Sanctuary,  and 
knows  with  the  waning  of  the  flame  in  the  lamp  before  the 
Tabernacle  that  his  vigil  is  over  and  done. 

"You  are  tired — so  tired !  Dear  Owen,  go  to  bed  now,  if 
only  for  an  hour  or  two.  There  will  be  news  of  him  very 
soon  now — there  must  be  news!" 

Saxham  took  a  delicate  fleecy  wrap  from  a  chair  and  put  it 
about  her,  for  she  shivered  in  the  raw  chill  of  the  unsunned 
morning  air.  Then  he  touched  the  blind,  and  it  rolled  up 
upon  a  vista  of  backyard  and  garage.  The  shriek  of  an 
engine  and  the  vibrating  passage  of  an  earl}'  train  through 


320  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Portland  Road  Tube  Railway  came  into  their  ears,  standing 
together  at  the  open  window,  as  Dawn  in  her  streaming 
crocus  veil  peeped  shyly  through  the  vast  smoke-bank  that 
broods  upon  the  morning  face  of  London,  engendered  by  the 
innumerable  little  fires  of  those  among  her  five  millions  who 
must  rise  and  eat,  and  go  forth  to  labour  ere  yet  it  is  fairly 
day. 

"Owen,  tell  me!  What  is  coming?  What  is  it  I  feel, 
here  and  here?" 

She  turned  upon  her  husband  suddenly  with  the  ques- 
tion, touching  her  brow  and  heart  lightly  and  fixing  on  him 
her  widely  opened  eyes.  The  haunted  look  of  Beatrice  had 
come  back  to  them.  His  wife's  strange  likeness  to  the 
Guido  portrait  in  the  Barberini  Palace  Gallery — the  tragic 
face  with  the  wistful  eyes,  that  despite  the  asseverations  of 
the  learned  and  critical  will  be  associated  as  long  as  its 
canvas  hangs  together  with  the  Daughter  of  the  Cenci — 
leaped  up  in  her  at  this  hour  to  startle  him  afresh. 

"What  is  in  the  air?"  she  asked.  "What  changes  are 
taking  place  about  us?  What  great  and  horrible  Thing  is 
moving, — moving  towards  us  as  we  stand  together  here?" 

Saxham's  powerful  arm  went  round  her  protectingly.  He 
answered : 

"You  shall  know,  m}'  love,  my  comrade.  In  confidence 
— I  am  permitted  to  tell  you  this  much.  We  stand  upon 
the  very  brink  of  international  War!" 

She  looked  at  him  and  in  the  golden  eyes  he  read  courage, 
endurance  and  tenderness.  Love  that  would  be  changeless. 
Fidelity  through  life  beyond  Death  to  the  Life  that  is  for 
evermore. 

"You  mean  that  Austro-Hungary  will  attack  vServia,  and 
that  Russia  will  intervene?" 

"As  Austria  intends,  no  doubt,"  said  Saxham  shrugging, 
"prompted  by  her  Mentor  and  Ally  at  Berlin.  In  him  we 
have  a  personality  blatantly  vain,  immensely  egoistic, 
feverishly  energetic,  imbued  to  the  verge  of  monomania 


Saxham  Breaks  the  News  321 

with  the  idea  of  his  own  appointment  by  the  Almight}- — as 
they  understand  Him  in  Germany— to  be  Imperial  leader 
of  nations  and  arbiter  of  the  destinies  of  Kings!" 

He  went  on: 

' '  Suppose  the  Great  Powers  of  the  World  a  row  of  straw 
bee-skeps,  susceptible  of  being  upset  by  a  Hohenzollem 
kick !  Will  the  mailed  toe  of  Imperial  Germany  refrain  from 
giving  it — invading  France  through  the  lost  Alsace-Lorraine 
provinces,  the  moment  Austria-Hungary  gets  to  grips  with 
the  Russian  bear?  Britain  is  France's  ally,  bound  in 
Honour  to  support  her.  Now  you  understand  what  vital 
questions  the  Chancellories  of  the  world  were  burning 
electric  light  and  brain-power  and  eyesight  over,  the  long 
night  through,  while  you  and  I " 

She  stopped  him: 

"You  make  me  think! — You  have  told  me — That  man 
who  has  taken  my  darling  is  a  German  Flying  Officer.  He 
may  have  had  some  urgent,  secret  reason  for  quitting  Eng- 
land at  once!" 

"It  is  more  than  probable  that  he  carried  dispatches  of 
importance.  But  I  can  answer  no  questions  on  that  point. 
I  should  be  verging,  if  I  did,  on  a  betrayal  of  confidence.  " 

Lynette  Saxham  looked  at  her  husband  earnestly,  and  the 
change  wrought  in  her  by  the  long  night's  vigil  of  sorrow 
sent  a  pang  through  the  man's  heart.  That  line  of  anxiety 
between  the  slender  eyebrows  and  the  bluish  shadows 
round  the  golden  eyes  came  to  him,  like  the  sorro\vful  sweet- 
ness of  the  exquisite  lips,  out  of  the  past. 

"Why  do  the  Germans  hate  us?"  she  asked,  and  he 
answered  wearily  and  sombrely: 

"As  the  nation  with  which  Germany  runs  neck  and  neck 
in  military  armament,  national  wealth  and  influence, 
Germans  pay  us  British  the  compliment  of  dislike.  Ger- 
man ambition,  spreading  rank  and  high,  is  checked  in  the 
attainment  of  its  ends  even  by  our  geographical  position. 

We  carry  in  our  veins  too  large  a  share  of  Teutonic  blood,  to 
31 


322  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

be  ingratiating  or  subservient  to  our  arrogant  and  domineer- 
ing neighbours.  What  hatred  is  bitterer  than  racial  hatred? 
Where  is  enmity  deadlier  than  that  one  finds  existing 
between  women  and  men  of  kindred  blood?" 

The  face  of  David,  fair  and  debonair,  rose  up  before 
Saxham  as  he  said  it.  Strange !  that  even  while  he  thanked 
his  stars  for  David's  ancient  treachery,  the  fact  of  the 
betraj^al  should  rankle  in  the  Doctor  still. 

"  Nowhere  is  there  hatred  more  terrible.  Listen,  Owen — 
there  is  something  I  want  to  tell  you " 

Lynette  shivered  and  drew  the  fleecy  shawl  more  closely 
about  her  white  bare  throat,  and  the  slender  shoulders  and 
arms  that  were  revealed  through  the  laces  of  her  filmy 
dinner-gown : 

"  In  the  first  days  of  the  Siege  of  Gueldersdorp,  a  woman 
from  the  native  stad,  the  wife  of  a  Barala  herd,  who  came  to 
the  Convent  for  medicine  and  soup  for  a  sick  piccanin — told 
the  Mother  that  long  before  the  Orange  Free  State  threw  in 
its  lot  with  the  Transvaal — long  before  Oom  Paul  and  Vader 
Steyn  ordered  that  all  rooinek  soldiers  sent  by  Groot  Brit- 
tanje  to  South  Africa  should  quit  the  country — the  Barala 
could  not  sleep  in  their  kraals  at  night  'for  the  going  of  the 
creatures. '  Not  all  the  creatures  of  prey — the  Eaters  of 
Flesh — the  crows  and  the  aasvogels, the  wild  dogs  and  jackals, 
the  aard-wolves,  and  hyaenas.  But  the  hartebeest  and 
springbok  and  prongbuck  and  rietbuck;  with  the  little 
gazelles  and  tiny  antelopes,  the  dassies  and  hares,  and  all 
the  sh3^  wild  harmless  things  that  are  stalked  and  shot  for 
what  is  called  sport,  by  most  men  and  some  women — they 
passed  away  in  multitudes  each  night  until  just  before  the 
dawn.  Even  the  meerkat  and  the  leopard  went,  the 
baboons  and  snakes  and  the  big  lizards.  Barala  trackers 
followed  the  trails  North  to  the  Marches  of  the  Okavango 
— and  farther  still  into  the  Mabunda  country — the  woman 
told  us — and  their  wise  men  had  warned  them  that  it  was 
a  teeken  of  War  to  come. " 


Saxham  Breaks  the  News  323 

Her  wistful  eyes  strained  towards  the  East,  where 
between  the  crowded  roofs  of  the  vast  City  and  the  shadowy 
purple  day-brow,  showed  a  clear  wide  band  of  crocus- 
yellow,  melting  into  exquisite  hyacinth-blue. 

"Perhaps  I  am  like  the  antelope  and  the  hares  and  the 
wild-bucks  and  the  other  creatures.  It  may  be  that  this 
nameless  Thing  that  I  have  felt  coming  nearer  and  nearer  is 
War,"  said  Lynette.  Then  she  winced  as  though  the  net 
had  whirled  and  fallen,  and  the  trident  pierced,  and  cried 
out  irrepressibly :  "If  so — Bawne  will  be  out  there  unpro- 
tected— in  the  midst  of  it !  Owen ! — do  you  hear  me?  How 
can  you  stand  there  so  calmly  when  such  a  thing  may  be? 
How — oh! — how  could  you  consent  to  his  going?" 

Saxham' s  square  face  was  set  like  a  mask  in  the  stern 
effort  for  self-control.  He  was  in  spirit  with  the  Navigating 
Lieutenant  on  the  upper  bridge  of  H.M.S.  Rigasamos, 
hearkening  to  the  drone  of  an  aeroplane  struggling  against 
the  thrust  of  a  north-west  gale.  .  .  .  He  heard  the  double 
knock  of  a  back-fire,  and  heard  men  talking  about  engine- 
trouble.  Even  as  he  brought  himself  back  to  say 
quietly. 

"I  did  as  you  would  have  done  in  the  same  circumstances. 
If  the  same  voice  that  spoke  to  me  had  virtually  said  to  you : 
'Here  stands  your  only  son,  a  child  in  years  and  yet  a  man  for 
England !  Will  you  let  him  go  ? '  Would  you  not  have  con- 
sented? If  you  deny,  I  shall  tell  you  that  I  know  my  wife 
better  than  she  knows  herself!" 

"  '  A  child  in  years — a  man  for  England.  .  .  . ' "  The  fold 
between  her  slender  eyebrows  deepened  and  the  delicate 
sensitive  upper-lip  lifted,  showing  the  white,  slightly  irregu- 
lar teeth.  "I  do  not  understand,"  she  said  piteously; 
"Was  there  any  question  of  an  order  to  be  carried  out? — a 
duty  to  be  done?" 

"There  was  a  question  to  be  settled, "  said  Saxham,  "in- 
volving Bawne's  whole  future.  Here  and  Hereafter — and 
the  question  was  this :  Whether  the  son  you  have  given  me  is 


324  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

worthy  of  his  mother,  or  whether  he  has  inherited  any  twist 
of  brain,  any  degenerate  and  wretched  weakness  from  the 
father  whom  your  pure  hand  saved  and  led  back,  my  guard- 
ian Saint,  my  heart's  beloved! — from  the  very  threshold  of 
the  gates  of  Hell." 

"Owen!  Don't  speak  so  of  yourself.  I  will  not  hear  it. 
You  had  been  so  wronged — driven  beside  yourself  by  misfor- 
tune and  betrayal.     You  were  not  responsible "     She 

covered  the  little  ears  with  the  slender  hands.  He  took  the 
hands  down  and  kissed  them,  and  held  them  in  his  own,  as 
he  went  on : 

"  That  is  what  I  should  like  to  believe.  But — the  truth  is 
very  different.  There  was — there  is  still,  I  suppose — a  spot 
of  weakness  in  me.  A  bubble  of  air  in  the  casting — a  flaw  in 
the  wrought  steel."  He  looked  like  wrought  steel  as  he 
spoke;  "I  had  to  be  sure  our  boy  is  sound,  mentally  and 
morally  as  he  is  physically.  Fit — in  the  fullest  and  highest 
sense  of  the  word.  Rather  than  have  the  doubt, "  said  Sax- 
ham,  "or  the  knowledge  that  confirms  the  doubt,  I 
would " 

"No,  no!"  She  tried  to  free  her  slender  hands,  but  the 
Doctor's  hold  was  as  inexorable  as  gentle.  "You  must  not 
say — that !     I  cannot  bear ' ' 

"Ah,  my  poor  love,  you,  too,  have  feared  lest  the  sins  of 
the  father  might  some  day  be  visited  on  the  son! "  said  Sax- 
ham  with  a  strange  mingling  of  pity  and  sorrow  and  exult- 
ation. "Well,  now  for  your  comfort,  believe  they  will  not 
be.  Bawne  is  all  yours,  Lynette.  Young  as  he  is,  he  has 
learned  to  master  Self  and  conquer  Fear.  Obedience, 
Duty,  and  Honotu-  are  welded  into  the  metal  of  his  char- 
acter. If  I  had  not  been  my  boy's  father,  I  should  have 
envied  that  man — knowing  what  I  have  learned  to-day. 
And  therefore  I  do  not  grudge — I  give  freely " 

"You   give — you   do   not   grudge "     She   suddenly 

wrenched  away  her  hands  and  said  in  a  tone  that  chilled 
Saxham : 


Saxham  Breaks  the  News  325 

"  Owen,  do  you  speak  like  this  because  you  believe  Bawne 
is— dead?" 

The  Doctor  made  answer : 

"  I  believe  that  if  God  so  decree  our  boy  will  yet  be  given 
back  to  us.  As  far  as  knowledge  goes — except  for  one  fact  I 
am  little  wiser  than  you. " 

"I  must  know  what  that  one  thing  is!  You  will  tell  me 
now,  and  all!" 

The  sun  was  rushing  up  over  East  London  in  a  gloriole  of 
golden  fire.  To  her  husband's  thought  she  was  like  some 
slender  Roman  patrician  at  the  stake,  as  she  stood  up 
against  the  background  of  flaming  splendour,  and  waited  to 
hear  the  worst. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 


THE   PLUNDERED    NEST 


If  that  story  of  the  aeroplane  over  the  North  Sea  in  the 
thickening  dark,  fighting  East  against  the  side-thrust  of 
the  nor'-west  gale,  with  the  dropping  revolutions  and  the 
hiccuping  engine,  had  seemed  desperate  before,  it  was 
ghastly  now.  Saxham's  last  hope  died  as  he  told.  When 
he  had  done,  Lynette  said  with  strange,  unnatural  com- 
posure : 

"Perhaps  I  have  loved  our  child  too  much,  and  that  is 
why  he  is  taken  from  me.  .  .  .  And  yet  how  can  a  mother 
love  by  measure  and  by  rule?  Did  Our  Lady  withhold  any 
part  of  her  love  from  her  Divine  Child?  Did  not  the  dear- 
est of  all  earthly  mothers  say  to  me — in  that  waking  Vision, 
the  God-given  reality  of  which  I  have  never  doubted — 'Be 
to  a  son  of  Owen's  what  I  have  been  to  you .' '  " 

Her  strained  composure  gave  way.  Her  face  quivered 
and  the  tears  broke  forth.  She  nipped  her  trembling  lips 
close  and  shut  her  quivering  eyelids  with  her  fingers,  but  the 
fountains  were  unsealed,  and  she  wept.  Perhaps  it  was 
better  so.  She  dried  her  eyes  presently,  and  yielding  to 
Saxham's  persuasions  in  that  she  consented  to  go  and  lie 
down,  she  came  into  his  embrace  and  laid  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  kissed  him  with  wifely  tenderness,  saying: 

"I  will  answer  now,  what  you  said  a  little  while  ago.  You 
shall  see  under  the  only  leaf  of  my  heart,  Owen,  that  has 
ever  been  folded  down  over  a  secret  kept  from  you.  When 
my  boy  was  to  be  born,  and  I  was  weak  and  suffering,  the 
doubt — the  dread,  that  has  haunted  and  tortured  you, 
assailed  me  and  made  me  wretched — for  a  little  while. 
Then  I  gathered  together,  jealously,  every  noble,  true  and 

326 


The  Plundered  Nest  327 

brave  thing  you  had  ever  done  for  me  or  for  others;  every 
good  deed  of  kindness,  every  unselfish  tender  thought.  I 
asked  you  to  take  me  with  you  to  visit  your  poorer  patients. 
I  saw  their  hollow  eyes  brighten  and  heard  them  bless  you 
when  you  turned  from  their  bedsides  to  carry  comfort  and 
help  elsewhere.  And  I  wrote  down  these  things  in  a  book. 
They  shine  from  its  pages  like  jewels.  When  I  die  it  was  to 
be  given  to  Bawne.  ...  It  will  be  if  he  lives  to  come  back 
to  us.  .  .  .  There  is  a  prayer  at  the  end  that,  in  His  good- 
ness, God  might  give  me  in  my  boy  a  man  like  you ! " 

He  went  with  her  to  the  door  and  looked  after  her  earn- 
estly as  she  passed  down  the  corridor  out  of  his  sight. 

Then  he  locked  himself  in,  and  went  back  to  his  chair  at 
the  consulting-room  table.  The  bright  boy  had  stood  there 
beside  him  a  few  short  hours  before.  He  was  there  now, 
pleading  with  a  silent  voice,  coaxing  with  unseen  looks, 
tugging  with  invisible  hands.  He  always  would  be. 
Though  Time  softened  the  mother's  anguish  of  loss,  there 
would  be  no  forgetfulness  for  Saxham,  the  grim  stern  man 
whose  nature  was  Fidelity.  Other  children  might  yet  call 
the  Dop  Doctor  father,  but  their  little  fingers  would  never 
blur  the  imprint  of  the  firstborn's  babyish  hand  upon  his 
heart. 

Perhaps  you  can  see  the  man,  wan  and  haggard  and 
unshaven,  trying  to  attend  to  the  pressing  correspondence 
that  had  accumulated  since  the  previous  noon.  Even  as, 
to  the  shrill  crying  of  the  Fleet  bugles,  a  windy  grey  day 
broke  over  the  choppy  Solent,  showing  the  huge  pageant  of 
Sea  Power  ready  for  the  King. 

Down  forty-mile  avenues  of  floating  steel  fortresses  one 
might  follow  Majesty,  with  a  great  muster  of  Naval  sea- 
planes and  aeroplanes  manoeuvring  somewhat  wildly  over- 
head. 

As  Saxham  sat  there  with  Fate's  trident  rankhng  in  him, 
those  lights  he  had  spoken  of  were  burning  behind  closely- 
curtained  windows  at  the  Admiralty  and  at  the  Foreign 


328  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Office,  and  at  the  Belgian  and  German  Embassies.  In 
Berlin  and  Vienna,  in  Brussels  and  Paris  and  St.  Petersburg 
— later  to  cast  off  its  Teutonic  name  in  loathing  and  be 
Petrograd — similar  phenomena  might  have  been  observed. 
"Austria  was  going  to  take  some  step,  "  as  Prince  Lichnow- 
sky  had  nervously  stated  to  Britain's  Foreign  Secretary, 
adding  that  he  regarded  the  situation  as  very  uncomfort- 
able. And  the  German  Foreign  Secretary  ingenuously 
confided  to  the  British  Charge  d' Affaires  in  Berlin  that  it 
was  the  intention  of  Austria-Hungary  to  offer  Serbia  a  pill 
which  she  could  not  swallow,  in  the  Note  demanding  the 
removal  of  all  officers  and  functionaries  guilty  of  propaganda 
against  the  Dual  Monarchy,  presented  by  Baron  Giesel  at 
Belgrade,  on  the  24th  of  July.  The  ultimatum  was  to  be 
accepted  or  rejected  within  forty-eight  hours,  a  sweeping 
proviso,  in  which  one  recognises  the  Hohenzollern  touch. 

The  world  trembled  on  the  brink  of  Armageddon.  Men 
even  then  were  doubtful  as  to  the  issue.  It  might  yet,  some 
said,  be  Peace.  But  if  Man,  who  arrives  at  conclusions  by 
intellectual  processes,  was  unsure,  not  so  things  that  are 
guided  merely  by  Instinct.  Like  the  wise  creatures  of 
Natal  and  the  Transvaal  and  Bechuanaland  in  1900,  these 
knew  quite  well  that  War  was  in  the  air. 

It  is  on  record  that  in  these  days  preceding  the  Great 
Calamity,  huge  droves  of  wild  pig,  great  herds  of  deer  and 
small  bands  of  the  rarer  elk,  with  bears,  hares,  martens,  and 
foxes,  evacuated  the  forests  of  Bavaria  and  South  Germany 
for  the  mountain  fastnesses  of  Switzerland.  Immense 
flights  of  birds  not  usually  migratory,  partridges,  pheasants, 
grouse,  plover,  wild-doves  and  water-fowl  went  South  with 
the  animals.  Under  cover  of  night  the  colossal  game- 
preserves  of  East  Prussia  emptied  into  Poland — their 
furred  and  feathered  peoples  passing  into  the  labyrinthine 
swamps  of  the  Russian  Dnieper  and  Dniester — spreading 
the  news,  sending  the  alarm  before  them: 

"Man  is  coming,  and  with  him  War!'' 


The  Plundered  Nest  329 

Man  was  coming.  That  strange  trembling  of  the  earth 
had  warned  its  creatures,  even  before  the  tramp,  tramp, 
tramp  of  millions  of  marching  feet,  the  rumbling  that 
betokened  the  slow  but  sure  approach  of  Titanic  death- 
engmes,  told  Fine  Ears  to  seek  safety  in  flight,  before  the 
cataclysm  of  hiunan  flesh  and  iron  and  steel,  and  chemicals  a 
thousand  times  more  deadly,  rolled  down  to  overwhelm, 
and  destroy.  Hence  through  those  July  nights  the  sound 
of  rushing  wings  above,  and  stealthy  pads,  and  trotting 
hoofs,  and  heavy  bodies  crashing  through  sedge  and 
brake  and  underbrush,  hardly  for  a  moment  ceased.  Puffs 
of  sweet  wild  breath,  and  musky  odours  from  hidden  lairs; 
tufts  of  hair  upon  the  thorns,  and  crowded  spoor  upon  the 
dust  of  the  forest-paths  or  the  mud  of  the  river-banks,  told 
of  their  going,  to  those  who  were  skilled  to  read  such  signs. 
But  the  same  mysterious  instinct  that  urged  them  to  flight, 
bade  the  eagle  and  vulture  that  prey  upon  carrion,  the  raven 
and  owl  and  crow,  the  wolf  and  lynx  be  on  the  alert,  for  the 
table  of  Earth  would  shortly  be  spread  for  them  as  never 
before  in  the  whole  History  of  War.  And  their  hoarse 
croaking  and  hooting  and  baying  and  barking  answered: 
War,  War,  War ! 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

PATRINE  REMEMBERS 

Patrine  knelt  beside  the  bed  in  her  charming  chintz- 
draped,  white-enamelled  room  at  Harley  Street,  and  clum- 
sily thanked  God  for  having  taken  away  von  Herrnung. 
She  petitioned  that  darling  Bawne  might  be  quickly  found 
and  brought  back,  and  that  if  he  were  not,  Lynette  might 
not  die.  And  she  wound  up  with  '  Our  Father, '  rather  im- 
perfectly remembered,  and  got  into  bed  wondering  whether 
Sherbrand  would  be  pleased  if  he  could  know  her  not  quite 
as  irreligious  as  she  had  boasted — and  lay  revelling  drowsily 
in  the  comfort  of  cool  lavender-scented  linen,  until  she  fell 
asleep. 

She  had  not  tasted  sleep  for  nights:  age-long  nights  of 
broad  staring  wakefulness.  Now  Somnos,  the  gentle  bro- 
ther of  Thanatos,  took  her  and  lapped  her  divinely  round. 
She  felt  herself  drifting  away  on  a  wide-flowing  tide  of  deep 
sweet  restfulness.  Then  it  was  as  though  an  electric  light 
were  suddenly  switched  on  in  the  dark  galleries  of  her  brain. 
Insomnia,  the  malevolent  hag-witch,  jests  thus  merrily  with 
her  victims,  suffering  them  to  taste  sleep,  and  then  whisking 
the  cup  away.  Like  many  other  practical  jests,  this  ends 
in  breakdown  and  brain-fever,  or  drives  its  victims  to  the 
chemist  for  sleepy  drugs,  and  to  the  madhouse  subsequently. 

In  the  middle  of  the  dazzling  cocoon-shaped  patch  of 
brightness  thus  created,  Patrine  recognized  the  outlines  of 
an  ornamental  fountain  that  occupied  the  centre  of  the 
vestibule  leading  to  the  supper-room  of  the  Upas  Club. 
Executed  in  the  New  Art  style  of  sculpture,  of  white  and 
black,  and  tawny  marble,  it  was  shaded  by  tall  palms  with 
gilded  leaves. 

330 


Patrine  Remembers  331 

On  low  pedestals  rising  from  the  rim  of  the  shallow  oval 
basin  of  the  fountain  were  three  nude  life-sized  shapes 
delicately  tinted,  with  gilt  hair,  carminedlips,  darkened  eye- 
brows, vague  round  eyes  of  pale  blue.  They  had  the  flat- 
tened breasts  and  narrow  hips  of  masculine  adolescence  with 
women's  faces  and  shoulders,  arms  and  thighs.  One  held 
a  finger  hushingly  on  its  lip;  another  was  putting  on  a  black 
vizard  through  which  its  pale  eyes  peeped  slyly,  the  third 
was  smiling  over  the  rim  of  a  golden  drinking-cup.  The 
Three  were  sharing  a  pleasant  secret  between  them — or  so  it 
had  seemed  that  night  to  Patrine. 

After  complying  with  certain  formalities,  and  paying  a 
heavy  fee  for  admission,  Patrine  with  her  friend  had  passed 
through  to  a  wonderfully  decorated  supper-room  with  a  big 
grill  at  the  end,  where  white-capped  cooks  were  busy  with 
savoury  things.  Wind  and  strings  filled  the  room  with 
great  waves  of  music.  Liveried  attendants  were  serv- 
ing champagne  in  crystal  jugs  to  men  and  women  seated 
supping  at  the  daintily-appointed  tables.  The  hot  eyes 
and  lividly-pale  or  purple-flushed  faces  of  many  of  the 
revellers,  already  told  their  tale  of  excess. 

The  champagne  at  a  guinea  a  jug,  a  speciality  of  the 
Upas,  had  seemed  excellent  to  Patrine.  She  was  out  for 
enjoyment,  and  fizz  made  you  feel  top-hole.  They  had 
supped — was  it  lobster  Americaine  or  grilled  oysters  that 
had  preceded  the  other  things? — when  there  came  a  change 
in  the  music.  The  unseen  orchestra  sighing  and  thrilling 
forth  the  amorous  phrases  of  Samson  et  Dalila,  leaped  all  at 
once  into  another  familiar  theme.  To  wit,  the  dance  of 
the  Jaguars  in  the  Jungle,  with  its  wail,  clang,  clash  and 
growl  as  of  strange,  discordant,  exotic  instruments. 

"Drums  covered  with  serpent-skin,  gombos  of  elephant- 
tusk,  human  skull-rattles  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of 
Voodoo,"  to  quote  Lady  Beauvayse. 

Couples  rose,  and  began  passing  out  through  a  wide 
curtained  exit  at  the  farther  end  of  the  supper-room.    The 


332  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

music  grew  madder.  Patrine,  laughing,  took  von  Herrnung's 
offered  arm. 

"Now,"  he  told  her,  "you  are  going  to  see  something 
that  is  very  chic  !  We  shall  dance  in  the  Hall  of  the  Hund- 
red Pillars!" 

"How  frightfully  ripping!"  said  Patrine. 

Thus  they  joined  the  mob  of  people — a  singularly  quiet 
mob, — and  passed  through  the  heavy,  curtained  entrance. 
The  much-talked-of  Hall  was  merely  a  big  circular  ball- 
room, lighted  by  groups  of  electric  lilies,  set  about  with 
pillars  of  tinted  glass,  slanting  from  a  dado  of  black  marble, 
ending  at  a  broad  frieze  of  black  beneath  the  ceiling-dome. 
Theatrical  and  tawdry,  gaudy  and  glittering,  the  scheme 
of  decoration  reminded  Patrine  of  the  inside  of  a  solitaire 
marble.  The  walls  of  fierce  bright  orange  were  striped  in 
curving  oblique  and  transverse  lines  of  black-and-silver,  the 
silver  dome  was  decorated  with  similarly  curving  lines  of 
orange-and-black. 

To  the  strange  barbaric  music  of  the  dance  from  Sao  Paulo 
men  and  women  were  gyrating  and  posturing,  gliding  and 
pausing,  as  other  men  and  women  had  done  at  the  Milles 
Plaisirs.  Presently  Patrine  and  her  friend  were  revolving 
like  the  others,  in  the  Valse  with  the  hesitations  and  the 
Tango  steps  in  it.  You  had  only  to  know  Tango  and  the 
thing  came  easily — or  you  imagined  it  did,  after  so  much 
champagne.  Reflected  in  the  wall  and  ceiling-mirrors  the 
girl  had  seen  herself,  twisting  and  twirling  amidst  the  mob  of 
dancers,  with  her  head  thrown  back,  and  her  long  eyes  blaz- 
ing, and  her  wide  red  mouth  laughing  wantonly,  before  the 
black-and-orange-and-silver  walls,  the  silver-and-black-and- 
orange  dome  spun  giddily  round  her  with  the  mob  of  dancers. 
Dazed,  she  had  shut  her  eyes.  She  had  felt  herself  being 
hurried  somewhere — out  of  the  pillared  dancing-hall.  .  .  . 

She  shivered,  lying  there  in  the  sunshine  remembering. 
.  .  .     She  recalled  von  Herrnung's  face  as  they  had  passed 


Patrine  Remembers  •   333 

out  of  velvet-curtained,  soundless  darkness  into  a  tapestry- 
hung,  softly-carpeted  corridor.  The  inner  angles  of  the 
eyebrows  were  lifted,  the  laughing  mouth  under  the  red- 
rolled  moustache  displayed  the  big  white  teeth  in  a  tigerish 
way.  The  pupils  of  his  eyes  were  dilated,  the  irises  pale  as 
water.  He  had  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  said  with  a 
strange  accent: 

"So,  Isis,  3''ou  are  mine  now!" 

"I  suppose  so!" 

"  I  did  not  suppose  so.  The  experience  has  been  very 
real  for  me.     Shall  we  go  back — or  would  you  prefer " 

She  said  with  her  face  turned  from  him  sullenly: 

"I  should  prefer  to  go — to  where  I  live!" 

He  had  been  loth  to  let  her  go.  Then  under  a  promise  of 
renewal  of  those  strange,  shameful,  secret  relations,  he  had 
wrapped  her  theatre-mantle  about  her,  and  helped  her 
arrange  her  lace  scarf  about  her  head,  and  taken  her  through 
a  passage  back  to  the  vestibule  where  the  three  ambiguous 
statues  stood  about  the  central  fountain,  upon  whose  rest- 
less jet  of  water  played  shifting  lights  of  different  hues. 
By  some  arrangement  of  those  who  had  planned  the  Upas, 
there  faced  you  as  you  issued  with  your  companion  from 
the  furtive  side-passage  the  figure  that  had  its  finger  on  its 
smiling,  carmined  lips.  .   .  . 

And  then — the  stale  air  of  London  at  dawn  in  midsummer. 
In  the  shabby  side-street  where  long  ranks  of  private  cars 
stood  waiting,  von  Herrnung  had  signalled  the  chauffeur  of 
one  of  them — could  the  man  have  been  the  German  who  had 
leered  at  her  that  day  at  Hendon  ? — and  then  he  had  put  her 
in,  and  followed  her,  and  taken  her  back  to  Berkeley 
Square.    .    .    . 

It  irked  her  to  remember  that  she  had  told  to  the  sleepy 
manservant  who  had  admitted  her  at  3  a.  m.  an  absolutely 
supererogatory  falsehood  to  account  for  her  return  at  that 
belated  hour.  For  Lady  Beau  wouldn't  have  bothered  if 
you'd  arrived  with  the  milkman,  so  long  as  you  turned  up 


334  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

smiling  at  her  bedside  with  your  fountain-pen,  and  her 
coroneted  paper-pad,  when  she'd  had  her  early  grape-fruit, 
and  roll,  and  coffee,  and  was  ready  to  tackle  her  morning 
mail. 

Patrine  must  be  discreet.  Cautious.  Must  tell  no  lies  of 
the  unnecessary  kind.  For  even  though  von  Herrnung  had 
been  removed,  just  when  his  attitude  had  become  formid- 
able and  menacing — there  might  yet  be  pitfalls  of  her  own 
digging  to  brave  and  shun. 

Pitfalls  .  .  .  Perils  ...  As  she  lay  wakeful,  conscious 
through  shut  eyeHds  of  the  white  mouldings  of  the  ceiling 
her  face  was  turned  to,  suddenly  a  keen  sharp  terror  ran  her 
through.  She  had  heard  her  own  voice  say  to  von  Herr- 
nung: 

"My  God!  Can't  you  understand  that  I  ask  nothing 
better  than  never  to  see  nor  hear  of  you  again! " 

He  had  mocked  her  with  his  hateful  smile,  and  she  had  not 
understood. 

"Under  no — possible  conditions?  Just  think  a  bit,  my 
dear!  Because — to  burn  one's  boats  behind  one — that  is 
not  prudent  at  all!" 

And  later: 

"You  give  me  to  understand  that  whatever  happens — 
whatever  happens — you  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
me?" 

Idiot ! — besotted  idiot !  She  leaped  up  in  the  bed,  visualis- 
ing the  peril,  clearly  as  though  a  shutter  had  snapped  back 
within  her  brain.  Horror  froze  her,  reahsing  the  shame  she 
might  live  to  bring  upon  those  who  loved  Patrine.  Uncle 
Owen  .  .  .     Lynette  .  .  .     Bawne.  .  .  . 

Mildred  and  Irma  were  minor  considerations,  shadowy 
silhouettes,  negative  quantities.  Neither  Irma  nor  Mildred 
had  ever  loved  Patrine,  Dad  had  though.  Poor,  dear  Dad! 
She  was  glad  he  wasn't  alive  now.  And  Margot  .  .  , 
Would  Kittums  cut  one  if — that  happened?     And — Sher- 


Patriae  Remembers  335 

brand!  A  blush  burned  over  her,  and  she  flung  herself 
face  downwards,  burying  her  scorching  face  among  the 
pillows,  stifling  the  scream  that  the  sheer  torture  wrung 
from  her,  by  nipping  a  fold  of  the  smooth  linen  in  her  teeth. 

So  she  lay  and  writhed  on  the  red-hot  griddle  of  her 
anguished  recollection,  until  a  neat  housemaid  knocked  at 
the  door  and  brought  her  morning  tea.  And  as  she  set 
down  the  emptied  cup,  someone  else  knocked,  and  opened 
the  door  softly,  and  Patrine  turned — to  meet  the  look  of 
Lynette. 

And  then,  though  her  struggling  conscience  warned  her 
that  she  was  unworthy  to  be  held  in  arms  so  pure,  she  cried 
out  wildly,  and  felt  herself  enfolded,  and  the  fierce  emotional 
tumult  within  her  broke  forth  in  wild  sobs  and  drenching 
tears.     She  heard  herself  saying: 

"I  would  have  given  my  life  over  and  over  to  have  saved 
you  from  grief  like  this!" 

And  yet  these  were  not  the  words  she  would  have  spoken. 
We  are  actors  often  and  often  when  we  least  suspect  our- 
selves, even  when  Calamity  with  one  swift  stroke  of  the 
scalpel  has  divided  the  palpitating  flesh  and  quivering 
nerves  down  to  the  living  bone. 

"I  would  have  given  my  life!"  she  wept,  and  Lynette 
seated  by  the  bedside  and  bending  over  her,  answered  ten- 
derly : 

"I  know  it,  my  kind  heart!  You  have  always  loved 
him.  You  wished  him  not  to  go — you  begged  Owen  not  to 
allow " 

There  was  unutterable  loyalty  in  the  breaking  of  the  sen- 
tence: "He  thought  it  best.  I  trust  my  husband, "  said  the 
sweet  voice.  "But  yet  I  thank  you,  dear  one,  for  your 
loyalty  to  me." 

"Don't  touch  me!  I'm  not  fit!"  Patrine  stammered, 
resisting  the  mothering,  encircling  embrace.  But  the  cup  of 
pure  sweetness  was  held  to  her  feverish  lips,  she  craved  it  too 
much  to  thrust  it  from  her.     You  can  see  her  coming  out  of 


33^  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  bed  in  a  galumphing  outburst  of  passionate,  remorseful 
tenderness : 

"Here  is  my  place! — here!"  she  gulped  out  brokenly, 
hiding  her  wet  face  on  the  elder  woman's  knees.  Together 
they  made  a  group  not  unlike  Bouguerau's  great  canvas  of 
the  Consolatrix,  save  that  there  was  no  dead,  lovely  boy 
lying  amidst  the  scattered  petals  of  the  fallen  roses  on  the 
stone.  Perhaps  if  there  had  been  and  the  worst  known, 
Bawne  Saxham's  mother  could  hardly  have  suffered  more. 

Not  to  understand  .  .  .  not  to  be  sure.  To  be  bereaved, 
and  never  to  know  just  how  the  Beloved  was  taken  from 
you.  .  .  .  Can  there  be  anything  more  fantastically  horri- 
ble than  this,  the  fate  of  thousands  of  sorrowing  women 
since  the  beginning  of  the  Great  War? 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  brilliant  and  hot  even  for  July 
weather.  The  clangour  of  church-bells  mingled  with  the 
clashing  of  milk-cans,  and  the  scent  of  pot-roses  mingled 
with  the  hot  smell  of  London  in  midsummer.  Lynette 
shivered  in  spite  of  the  sultriness,  and  looked  down  at  the 
girl,  spilt  out  at  her  knees  under  the  meretricious  splendour 
of  her  dead  beech-leaf  hair.  She  did  not — how  could  she  ? — 
fathom  the  secret  of  such  wretchedness,  but  love  and  pity 
flooded  her  heart,  thawed  out  of  its  frozen  misery  by  the 
vital  warmth  of  the  contact.  She  drew  the  unresisting 
arms  upwards  and  about  her,  and  lifted  the  prone  head  and 
took  it  to  her  bosom,  saying: 

"  My  poor  girl !     My  dear  Patrine ! " 

They  were  silent  awhile.  Then  Lynette  asked,  her  soft 
breath  stirring  the  heavy  tresses : 

"Why  did  you  do  this,  dearest?  Wasn't  it  sufficiently 
beautiful?" 

Patrine  choked  out,  blazing  crimson  to  the  tips  of  her 
little  ears: 

"No!  At  least! — It  is  hideous  now  and  he  hated  it!  I 
— I  had  to  tell  him,"  a  sob  and  a  laugh  tangled  together, 
"it  was  the  effect  of  Paris  air!" 


Patrine  Remembers  337 

Lynette  smiled,  though  the  golden  eyes  were  running  over: 
"Bawne  thinks  so  much  of  you,  always!" 

"I  don't  deserve  that  any  one  should!" 

"Nobody  shall  speak  ill  before  me  of  any  one  I  care  for! 
Why  did  you  start? " 

For  a  vision  had  flashed  into  the  brain  of  Patrine,  of  all 
the  world  mocking  and  jeering  and  vilifying,  and  Saxham 
and  Lynette  upholding  and  defending  David's  daughter, 
who  had  brought  disgrace  upon  them.  She  lifted  her  head 
and  released  herself  almost  roughly  from  Lynette's  embrace. 
She  stooped  down  and  took  the  hem  of  Mrs.  Saxham's 
gown  and  kissed  it,  and  rose  up  looking  wonderfully  big  and 
stately,  and  extraordinarily  tall. 

"I  love  you!"  she  said  in  her  large  warm  voice.  "You 
are  the  best  woman  I  ever  met  or  shall  meet,  and  I  am  a 
rotten  bad  hat!  Not  worth  a  penn'orth  of  monkey-nuts, 
take  my  word  for  it !  But — if  somebody  like  you  had  been 
my  mother — perhaps  there'd  have  been  something  to  show 
for  it  to-day." 

Lynette  might  have  replied,  but  just  then  through  the 
quiet  house,  unnaturally  still  without  the  boyish  voice  and 
the  boyish  laughter,  and  the  clumping  of  little  thick-soled 
brogues  upon  the  stairs  and  in  the  passages,  there  sounded 
the  sharp  whirring  ting-a-ting  of  the  hall  telephone-bell. 
She  turned  and  was  gone  with  no  more  noise  than  a  thrush 
makes  in  departure.  Left  alone,  Patrine  threw  on  her  bath- 
robe over  the  thin  nightgown  of  revealing  transparency, 
lined  with  the  opulent  beauty  that  captures  the  desires  of 
men,  and  looked  at  her  fair  reflection  in  the  long  cheval- 
glass,  smiling  with  something  of  the  subtlety  of  the  and- 
rogynous genius  of  the  Upas  Club  fountain — the  figure 
that  faced  the  guests  as  they  entered,  tying  a  vizard  over  its 
mocking  eyes. 

"You're  worse  even  than  I  thought  you!"  Patrine  said 
calmly  to  Patrine,  "but  now  you  know  what  he  meant  by 
what  he  said,  you're  not  going  to  trust  to  Chance  and  Luck. 
22 


338  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

You're  going — for  Uncle  Owen's  sake,  and  Aunt  Lynette's, 
and  Bawne's — and  Mother's  and  Irma's  and  your  own — 
don't  pretend  you're  a  victim! — to  marry  Sherbrand,  the 
Flying  Man!" 

Not  a  notion  of  any  possible  or  eventual  wrong  or  injury 
to  Sherbrand  troubled  her  conscience.  She  had  yet  to 
develop  on  the  side  of  moral  sensitiveness.  Responsibility 
towards  God,  and  duty  towards  her  neighbour — the  sense 
of  these  two  obligations  that  are  the  foundation  and  corner- 
stone of  Christianity — had  not  as  yet  awakened  in  Patrine. 

She  liked  Sherbrand.  It  troubled  her  more  that  he  had 
not  the  cachet  of  one  of  the  great  public  Schools,  than  to 
know  him  poor,  with  his  four  hundred  per  annum — as  the 
proverbial  church-mouse.  But  she  herself  was  not  alto- 
gether penniless.  There  would  be  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year  for  Patrine  when  she  married;  derived  from 
moneys  bequeathed  to  his  daughter's  children  by  Grand- 
papa Lee  Hailey,  strictly  tied  up  and  protected  by  various 
legal  provisos,  from  depredations  on  the  part  of  the  un- 
known possessive  male. 

Five  hundred  and  fifty  between  them.  Anyhow,  she 
told  herself,  that*  was  better  than  a  jab  in  the  eye  with  a 
burnt  stick.  How  soon  might  the  marriage  be  brought  off? 
One  must  bend  one's  energies  to  the  solving  of  that  ques- 
tion. How  many  sleepless  nights — they  were  horribly 
unbecoming! — lay  between  Patrine  and  Security?  The 
Fear  that  lurked  in  her  dried  her  palate  at  the  question. 
She  felt  like  the  runner  of  a  Marathon  fainting  in  sight  of 
the  goal. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

FLOTSAM   FROM   THE   NORTH   SEA 

On  Monday  morning,  July  20th,  under  a  flying  double- 
column  of  Naval  Goody  Two  Shoes  and  aeroplanes,  the  King 
led  forth  his  Fleets  for  tactical  exercises  in  the  Channel. 
There  were  pictures  on  the  screens  at  the  music-halls  that 
night  and  for  many  nights  after,  that  evoked  from  huge 
audiences  tremendous  outbursts  of  patriotic  clapping. 
Hence  first  blood  in  the  Great  War  scores  to  Lil,  belonging 
to  the  most  ancient  of  all  professions — who  had  accepted 
the  invitation  proffered  by  a  Teutonic  stranger  to  join  the 
familiar  crowd  on  the  Empire  Promenade. 

The  German  paid  for  drinks.  A  friend  joined  him. 
There  were  more  drinks,  and  the  two  men  began  to  talk, 
discussing  the  ultimatum  expected  from  Austria-Hungary, 
and  the  inevitable  refusal  of  Belgrade  to  eat  Vienna  humble- 
pie.  War  with  Russia  must  ensue.  They  were  cheering  in 
Berlin  that  night  for  Krieg  mit  Russland. 

"  It  must  come  sometime,  "  said  Lil's  patron  in  an  under- 
tone to  his  crony.     "Why  then  should  it  not  happen  now  ? " 

"War  with  Russia  means  war  with  France!"  the  other 
returned  in  the  same  key. 

"And  war  with  France  a  reckoning  with  these  pig-dogs ! " 
snarled  Lil's  temporary  owner.  "If  the  Serbians  and 
Russes  are  to  be  smacked — good!  If  the  French — good 
also!     If  the  English,  a  thousand  times  the  better!" 

"  Let  us  hope,  "  said  the  more  placable  Teuton,  emptying 
his  second  liqueur-glass  of  Kiimmel — "that  it  will  not  be 
this  time  as  at  the  affair  of  Agadir!" 

"We  are  ready!"  said  Lil's  patron  with  an  oath.  "We 
have  seven  millions  of  men  ready,  and  two  thousand  millions 

339 


340  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

of  cartridges,  and  for  shell — one  would  not  have  dreamed  the 
world  held  so  much  steel  packed  with  super-explosive.  No, 
no !     Diesmal  wird  es  nicht  sein  wie  in  der  Agadir  I" 

He  inquired  as  they  left  the  bar  and  moved  to  where  Lil, 
steeped  in  the  Pictures,  was  standing  at  the  front  of  the 
Promenade : 

"What  are  these  Gottverfiticht  jsLckasses  braying  about?" 

The  jackasses  were  lustily  cheering  the  portrait  of 
Admiral  Sir  John  Rushworth  Jellicoe,  Commander-in- 
Chief  of  the  Grand  Fleet — now  flung  upon  the  screen.  And 
the  jackasses  got  upon  their  feet  with  a  sound  as  though 
the  packed  house  were  tumbling  to  pieces,  and  the  Orchestra 
changed  on  the  final  bar  of  "Rule  Britannia!"  and  the 
more  belligerent  of  the  two  Teutons  leaned  over  the  barri- 
cade and  hissed  malignantly,  as  wind  and  strings  crashed 
tumultuously  into  "God  save  the  King!" 

The  row  broke  out  in  the  Promenade  as  the  Royal 
portrait  flashed  out  and  faded.  A  German  voice  swore 
shrilly,  another  expostulated,  and  a  woman  screamed  and 
screamed.  .  .  . 

"'Ere!  What's  up,  what's  up  now  along  o'  you,  young 
woman?"  demanded  a  burly  gold-braided  Commissionaire, 
thrusting  through  the  staring  crowd  that  had  gathered. 
He  dragged  Lil,  still  screeching  and  clawing,  from  the  wind- 
pipe of  her  dishevelled  patron,  adding,  "Do  you  call  this 
pretty  be'aviour?     I'm  ashamed  o'  you — I  am!" 

"He  hissed.  .  .  .     The his:.  >d  the  King!"  Lil  gasped, 

scarlet  and  vituperative  and  still  clawing.  "Let  me  git  at 
'im!     Let  me " 

"No,  hold  her  tight!  It  is  a  lie!  She  is  drunk!"  snarled 
the  German  who  had  hissed.  His  necktie,  a  choice  thing  in 
Berlin  haberdashery ,  much  sported  on  the  Unter  den  Linden, 
was  plucked  up  by  the  roots,  and  a  broad  bleeding  scratch 
adorned  his  flushed  and  angry  features.  But  at  the  sug- 
gestion that  he  should  give  the  offender  in  charge  of  the 
Police,  he  melted  with  his  companion  into  the  thinnest  of 


Flotsam  from  the  North  Sea         341 

thin  air,  and  Lil  did  not  spend  the  night  in  the  cells 
at  Wine  Street  Police-Station.  There  ought  to  have  been 
a  paragraph  in  the  Daily  Teller  or  the  Morning  Wire, 
but  it  was  crowded  out  by  the  report — in  leaded  type — 
of  von  Herrnung's  death  and  that  of  the  boy,  his  volunteer 
passenger,  the  only  son  of  Dr.  Owen  Saxham,  M.D., 
F.R.C.S.,  M.V.O.,  whose  distinguished  share  in  the  De- 
fence of  Gueldersdorp  would  always  be  remembered,  etc., 
etc.,  even  now  that  the  frank,  manly,  and  courageous  policy 
of  General  Botha  had  established  permanent  and  solid  ties 
of  friendship  between  the  Briton  and  the  Boer. 

A  sudden  freak,  perhaps  a  private  bet,  had  induced  the 
deceased  officer.  Captain  Count  von  Herrnung  of  the  Prus- 
sian Field  Flying  Service,  son  of  a  distinguished  official  of 
the  German  Imperial  Foreign  Office,  and  hero  of  the  two 
days'  flight  from  Hanover  to  Paris  in  the  previous  April, — 
to  essay  the  crossing  to  Germany  at  a  late  hour,  and  in 
the  face  of  a  threatening  gale.  Another  paragraph  recorded 
how  the  wreck  of  the  monoplane,  "Bird  of  War"  (wrongly 
described  as  "the  property  of  Fanshaw's  Flying  School"), 
"had  been  found  by  a  passenger-steamer  of  the  Hamburg 
Line,  bound  for  Newcastle,  floating  derelict  in  the  North 
Sea." 

A  telephone-call  followed  the  ring  that  had  heralded  the 
stroke  of  Fate's  scimitar  on  that  thick  bull-neck  of 
Saxham's.  He  answered  it  through  the  roaring  in  his  cars 
of  the  North  Sea  waters  that  had  drowned  the  boy. 

"Are  you  there?"  came  in  the  voice  of  the  friend  so 
toughly  tried,  so  faithfully  trusted.  "You  have  heard 
the  report  ?  Your  voice  tells  me  you  have !  Hope,  man ! — 
hope! — against  everything  go  on  hoping!" 

The  thick  slow  answer  came  stumbling  over  the  wire : 

"Have  I — grounds  for  hope? " 

Came  the  prompt  reply : 

"I  say  yes!  Dare  to  despair,  when  you  hear  that  from 
me!" 


342  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"God  bless  you,  General ! " 

"Have  you — you  have  not  told  her?" 

Saxham  answered,  steadying  his  twitching  lips: 

"  No ! — I  thought  I  should  like  to  keep  my  wife  for  another 
hour  or  two ! ' ' 

There  was  a  crisp,  sharp  order: 

"Go  to  her  now,  and  steel  her  with  this  from  me — that 
the  aeroplane,  when  found,  had  been  thoroughly  gutted. 
The  First  Ofhcer,  who  is  English  and  one  of  our  men,  swears 
positively  to  this.  The  'Gnome '  engine  had  been  taken  out 
of  the  stirrups,  and  the  gyroscopic  hovering-gear  removed 
wholesale.  Do  you  comprehend  that  this  means — a  pre- 
arranged thing?  Listen! — I'll  pound  it  into  you,  confound 
you!  Once — they  have  been  picked  up!  Twice — they 
have  been  picked  up !  Three  times — they  have  been  picked 
up !     Go  to  your  wife  and  tell  her  so  from  me ! " 

The  speaker  rang  off. 

But  he  knew  discouragement.  The  rapid  march  of  events 
across  the  page  of  History  since  the  Saturday  of  von  Herr- 
nung's  flight  from  Hendon  had  eUcited  a  check  from  Official 
Headquarters. 

Without  signing  the  book  that  all  visitors  must  sign,  and 
cooHng  your  heels  in  the  anteroom,  you  are  to  be  admitted 
to  the  private  sanctum  at  the  War  Office,  Whitehall,  and  the 
presence  of  Britain's  Secretary  of  State  for  War.  See  him, 
seated  square  and  upright  in  a  high-backed  leather-covered 
arm-chair  behind  a  big  green  cloth  covered  mahogany  desk, 
a  thinnish,  wide-shouldered  man,  with  a  nose  of  the  beaky 
type,  brown  crisp  hair  sprinkled  with  grey  receding  from 
tall  sunburned  temples,  and  deep-set  smallish  blue  eyes,  a 
little  weakened  by  much  recent  poring  over  State  documents 
by  electric-light. 

The  British  Government  found  it  incompatible  with  its 
present  line  of  Foreign  Policy  to  take  steps  towards  the 
recovery  of  the  Foulis  Papers.  For  forty-five  years  their 
duplicates   had  lain  in   safe-keeping  at   the  War  Office. 


Flotsam  from  the  North  Sea         343 

They  were   there  now.       That   was  the  Minister's  chief 
point. 

The  FouUs  War  Engine  had  never  been  patented — never 
acquired  by  the  British  War  Office.  Such  distinction  or 
favour  as  the  tenth  Earl  had  received  from  Government  had 
been  conferred  in  recognition  of  the  dead  man's  gallant 
services  to  his  country,  not  as  the  reward  of  his  inventive 
gift.  Ergo,  the  British  Government  could  not  concern  itself 
with  the  theft  of  the  original  Plans  from  Gwyll  Castle.  To 
pursue  and  arrest  the  thief  was  the  affair  of  the  Head  of  the 
Clanronald  family.  If  his  lordship  chose  to  drop  the 
matter! — the  Colonel's  celebrated  Parliamentary  shrug  and 
smile  conveyed  the  rest. 

There  was  another  point  still.  If  the  Plans  of  the  War 
Engine  of  Clanronald  had  once  been  seen  by — alien  eyes, 
the  possession  of  the  formulas  did  not  matter  two  pence. 
The  cat  that  had  grown  grey  in  the  bag  was  out  of  it  for 
good.  In  the  Colonel's  opinion — a  priceless  asset  in  the 
highly  delicate  condition  of  International  Politics — a  more 
formidable  document  than  the  Foulis  Plan  was  the  Note 
which  was  even  then  being  placed  by  Austria's  Repre- 
sentative at  Belgrade  before  the  Serbian  Council  of  Minis- 
ters. This,  in  conjunction  with  Germany's  deferred  ans- 
wer to  our  proposal  of  a  Conference  of  Representatives 
of  the  Great  Powers,  and  the  sudden,  secret  return  of  the 
Emperor  of  Germany  to  Berlin — "justifies  Admiralty 
orders  that  have  been  issued, "  said  the  Minister,  "directing 
our  First — ahem! — Battle  Fleet,  concentrated — as  it  hap- 
pens!— at  Portland,  not  to  disperse  for  Manoeuvre  Leave." 

The  speaker,  who  had  pushed  back  his  chair  and  crossed 
his  legs,  looked  very  steadily  at  Sir  Roland  as  this  last 
sentence  very  quietly  left  his  thin  lips.  Not  a  muscle 
twitched  in  the  other's  lean,  keen  face.  The  Minister  went 
on: 

"Thus  I  may  hope  I  have  made  clear  to  you  my  view  of 


344  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  situation.  As  for  the  Flying-officer,  Count  von  Herr- 
nung — we  may  presume  him  to  have  been — for  no  doubt  he 
is  drowned — a  military  spy.  The  German  General  Staff 
have  a  preference  for  employing  men  belonging  to  the  higher 
social  circles  for  work  of  this  kind.  Wonderfully  organised, 
their  system  of  strategical  and  political  investigation!" 

Sir  Roland  agreed : 

"Wonderfully  organised,  when  one  goes  closely  into  its 
ramifications — tracing  and  following  them  to  their  Head- 
quarters in  a  certain  underground  office  at  the  Wilhelm- 
strasse !  But  they  fail  in  one  thing.  The  kind  of  operations 
they  contemplate  can  usually  be  deduced  from  the  line  of 
their  reconnaissance ! " 

"And  yet  in  the  instance  under  consideration, "  hinted 
the  Minister,  "Count  von  Herrnung's  intention  of  com- 
mandeering a  machine  from  the  Hendon  Flying  Ground 
seems  to  have  been  fairly  well  disgiiised!" 

"Pardon  me!"  opposed  Sir  Roland,  with  quiet  assurance. 
"He  had  no  such  intention  when  he  arrived  at  Hendon. 
His  orders  were  conveyed  to  him  on  the  ground !  And  the 
haste  with  which  he  was  got  out  of  England  with  the  brown 
satchel  proves  that  his  superiors  did  not  dare  to  delay  even 
for  the  precautionary  measures,  and  that  no  copies  nor 
photographs  have  been  made  of  the  Foulis  MSS.  and  plans ! 
Take  it  from  me  that  the  cat,  if  she  has  not  already  got  to 
Germany,  remains  in  the  brown  bag!" 

"And  the  bag  is  somewhere  in  the  North  Sea.  But  it 
may  be  recovered,"  said  the  Minister,  "with  the  body  of 
von  Herrnung. " 

The  General  returned,  with  a  deepening  of  the  lines  upon 
his  forehead,  and  at  the  angles  of  his  mobile  nostrils: 

"  It  may  be  recovered,  as  you  say.  But  if  so,  it  will  be 
found  upon  the  body  of  the  boy. "  He  added,  meeting  the 
question  in  the  tired  eyes  of  the  other  man:  "Some  objec- 
tion was  made  by  Mr.  Sherbrand — the  owner  of  the  now 
wrecked  aeroplane — to  von  Herrnung's  taking  the  satchel 


Flotsam  from  the  North  Sea         345 

with  him  in  the  pilot's  pit.  vSo — Mr.  Sherbrand  informs 
me — von  Herrnung  strapped  it  to  the  safety-belt  that 
secured  Saxham  in  his  seat. " 

A  gleam  of  interest  warmed  the  frostiness  of  the  Ministe- 
rial countenance: 

"The  boy  ...  Ah!  yes,  as  I  think  I  mentioned  before, 
I  sympathise  deeply  with  the  boy's  parents.  He  is  a  son  of 
a  personal  friend  of  your  own,  I  understand?" 

"Dr.  Saxham,  sir,  late  attached  to  the  Medical  Staff  at 
Gueldersdorp. " 

"Saxham — that  is  the  name — and  the  child  is  the  only 
one?  Most  sad  and  regrettable.  And  I  think  the  para- 
graph in  the  Wire  mentioned — one  of  your  Boy  Scouts?" 

"One  of  my  Scouts!"  The  Chief's  bright  eyes  snapped 
as  he  added,  "Very  much  to  the  honour  of  his  troop.  Very 
greatly  to  the  credit  of  the  Organisation — as  I  mean  to 
prove  to  him  should  he  happily  survive  to  return!" 

"Indeed?     You  interest  me!     Pray  tell  the  story." 

It  was  told,  succinctly  and  crisply.    He  said  quite  warmly: 

"  I  could  hardly  have  credited !  What  pluck  and  energy  I 
And  to  dare  the  thing — on  the  strength  of  a  second  flight! 
A  boy  like  that  should  have  lived!  Good-bye,  my  dear 
General ! ' ' 

He  added,  accompanying  the  visitor  to  his  door: 

"These  are  pleasant  summer  evenings  to  be  wasted  in 
London !  A  shower  or  so — and  one  could  do  a  great  deal  of 
execution  with  the  White  Coachman  on  our  Hampshire 
trout-rivers,  sir!" 

He  spoke  like  an  angler  mildly  peeved  by  deprivation  of 
the  sport  he  loved  best,  and  even  paused  to  tap  the  glass 
of  a  barometer  hanging  by  the  wainscot,  on  his  way  back  to 
the  writing-table  littered  with  State  papers,  in  defiance  of 
the  thin,  shrill  summons  of  the  telephone-bell.  .  .  . 

So  the  General  went  away,  owning  to  himself  that  the 
thing  looked  desperate.     It  was  better  for  England  that  the 


346  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Plans  of  the  Foulis  War  Engine  should  lie  at  the  bottom  of 
the  North  Sea,  but  what  of  his  friend,  what  of  his  friend's 
wife  ? 

The  keen  eyes  were  unwontedly  dim  as  he  reached  the 
wide  Turkey-carpeted  landing,  and  the  messenger  caught  a 
snatch  of  The  Flowers  o'  the  Forest  whistled  in  slow  time 
as  his  hurrying  footsteps  overtook  the  General.  Would  Sir 
Roland  please  to  go  back,  was  the  gist  of  the  message.  The 
Minister  had  something  further  to  communicate. 

The  War  Minister  was  not  alone.  Two  persons  were 
with  him — a  tall  man  in  civilian  clothes  who  stood  looking 
out  of  the  window  as  one  who  had  temporarily  removed 
himself  out  of  earshot,  the  other  a  slim  and  dapper  Naval 
Secretary. 

The  "something  further"  proved  to  be  the  pith  of  an 
Admiralty  communication  just  imparted.  Early  that 
morning  a  British  Submarine  on  North  Sea  Patrol  duty  (we 
will  call  her  E-131),  upon  returning  to  the  surface  to  ascer- 
tain the  cause  of  defective  submergence,  had  discovered  a 
brown  leather  lock-strap  to  be  entangled  with  her  aft  diving- 
plane  on  the  starboard  side.  A  leather  satchel  firmly 
attached  to  the  other  end  of  the  strap  was  jammed  under  the 
plane,  and  subsequently  extricated  by  one  of  the  men,  from 
the  collapsible. 

Perhaps  you  can  imagine  the  Lieutenant  Commander 
stooping  over  the  retrieved  bit  of  flotsam,  lying  under  the 
shaded  electric  light  hanging  over  the  narrow  sliding  table 
that  pulled  out  from  under  his  bunk  in  the  officer's  cabin — 
a  place  of  privacy  again,  the  steel  bulkhead-doors  being  shut. 
For  when  you  submerge  they  are  all  thrown  wide  so  that 
the  Commander's  eye  may  traverse  the  whole  length  of  an 
elongated  engine-room,  and  see  what  every  man  is  doing  at 
his  particular  post,  in  a  single  flash. 

The  Commander's  eye  was  screwed  up  in  the  vain  endeav- 
our to  see  under  the  flap  of  the  locked  satchel.  He  took  up 
the  thing  and  turned  it  in  his  hands,  while  the  strap,  soaked 


Flotsam  from  the  North  Sea         347 

and  twisted  by  sea-water  and  engine-power,  flapped  upon 
his  knees  like  a  long  frond  of  wet  seaweed. 

"Wonder  who  cut  the  strap  ? "  Clumsily,  as  though  by  a 
blunt  knife  wielded  by  a  numb  hand — it  had  been  hacked 
through,  and  the  satchel  scratched  badly  in  the  process. 
He  went  on:  "  Looks  like  some  rich  American  globe-trotter's 
travelling-satchel.  No  picking  these  locks!  One  might 
negotiate  'em  with  the  oxygen  flame-puff — if  it  wasn't  for 
the  risk  of  damaging  the  wads  of  dollar  bills  that  might 
possibly  be  inside.  Nothing  to  be  done  but  rip  or  cut  the 
leather — and  that  seems  to  be  made  strengthy  with  metal, 
somehow ! "  He  slipped  the  lean  blade  of  a  penknife  between 
the  strongly  stitched  edges.  The  satchel  proved  to  be  lined 
with  thin  plates  of  aluminium.  "As  easy  to  get  inside  as 
the  Bank  of  England! "  he  grumbled,  and  so  it  proved,  if  the 
Bank  of  England  has  ever  been  negotiated  with  a  bull-head 
tin-opener. 

Inside  the  leather  case  lined  with  aluminium,  a  little  sea- 
water  had  penetrated,  patching  with  damp  a  small  antique 
portfolio  of  pearly,  bossy  shark-skin  exquisitely  painted  with 
birds  and  foliage  by  some  old-world  Japanese  master  of  Art. 
The  quaintly  feeble  lock,  and  corner-guards  were  of  bronze, 
gold-inlaid  with  scowling  fox-masks,  and  the  inevitable 
chrysanthemum. 

The  Japanese  lock  gave  at  a  twist  of  the  penknife-blade 
and  then  the  portfolio  disgorged  its  loose  sheaf  of  yellowed 
papers  strung  together  by  a  clew  of  faded  silken  twist. 
Drawings  to  scale  and  plans:  sheets  of  manuscript  and 
pages  covered  with  the  symbols  used  in  chemical  formulas,  ^ 
scribed  in  a  clear  small  rounded  hand. 

"Great  Scott!— what's  this?" 

The  ash  from  the  Commander's  neglected  cigarette  fell 
upon  the  topside  of  the  precious  manuscript.  He  blew  it 
reverently  off,  and  dug  himself  into  the  pile : 

"H'm,  hum!" 

''By  Me,  Robert  Foulis,  Seaman,  Tenth  Earl  of  Clanronald^ 


348  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

G.  C.B . ,  A  dmiral  of  the  Red,  Rear- A  dmiral  of  the  British  Fleet, 
and  Marquis  of  Araman,  etc.,  etc.  Invented  &■  Conceived 
Not  in  Hatred  of  Mankind,  but  in  Defence  of  my  Country  and 
the  Rights  Beloved  by  Every  True  Briton " 

"Marvellous  old  cock!  And  in  1854,  when  he  was  eighty 
if  a  day,  he  offers  it  for  the  fifth  time  to  the  British  Govern- 
ment!" 

"Busy,  Owner?  See  you've  got  inside  the  prize-packet! 
My  Christmas !  what  is  it  ?  Miss  Araminta's  Diary ;  '  Found 
AFTER  Forty  Years!'  or  'How  I  Broke  My  Engagement 
WITH  the  Curate!'" 

This  from  a  young,  exceedingly  wet,  and  dirty  Engineer 
Lieutenant,  fresh  from  an  interview  with  the  damaged 
diving-plane,  and  smelling  potently  of  castor-oil. 

The  Commander  looked  up,  and  strange  things  were  in  his 
eyes. 

"You're  pretty  wide!"  He  added,  speaking  partly  to  the 
other  man  inside  the  Commander:  "Jolly  good  thing  we're 
on  the  Home  trip.  That  main  motor  gives  a  lot  o'  trouble, 
and — suppose  some  purblind  sailing  ship  crashed  into  us — 
and  sent  us  to  the  bottom  with  this  aboard.  Great  Sea 
Boots !    It  makes  me  crawl  all  down  my  back  to  think  of  it ! " 

The  Second  clattered  down  the  steel  ladder  and  filled  the 
doorway  with  his  burly  personality. 

"What  makes  you  crawl?  Don't  say  the  leg  o'  mutton 
we  bought  Saturday  from  the  skipper  of  that  Grimsby 
trawler  has  gone  back  on  us !  Is  that  what  the  liar  means  by 
fresh  meat?" 

"  If  I  told  you,  you.'d  crawl  too.  Or  you'd  think  it  a  case 
of  sunstroke — or  D.T.  of  the  deferred  kind. "  The  Com- 
mander stowed  the  papers  back  in  the  sharkskin  case  with 
gingerly  carefulness  that  provoked  the  query  whether  he 
thought  he  had  got  hold  of  a  new  kind  of  floating  mine,  and 
elicited  the  retort : 

"I  don't  think!— I  know  it!" 

No  one  got  anything  more  out  of  the  speaker,  who,  pres- 


Flotsam  from  the  North  Sea         349 

ently,  declining  stewed  mutton,  whose  wholesome  savour 
amply  certified  to  the  moral  character  of  the  trawler's 
skipper,  went  to  the  Wireless  and  dispatched  a  pithy  mes- 
sage to  the  Commander  of  E-131's  particular  Coast  Defence 
station,  and  the  news  was  flashed  to  Whitehall,  to  go  forth 
ere  long  from  thence  over  the  world. 

Sir  Roland  said,  with  that  unwonted  cloud  dulling  His 
bright  eyes,  and  a  certain  huskiness  of  utterance: 

"There's  no  other  solution  of  the  puzzle.  Remembering 
that  I  had  said  to  him,  'In  an  emergency,  you  might  do  good 
service  to  your  country  by  destroying  this!'  my  Scout  took  the 
only  course  open  to  him — and  dumped  the  satchel  into  the 
sea!" 

The  Minister  admitted  with  characteristic  reticence : 

"Whether  I  concur  with  your  theory  or  not,  I  must  admit 
to  you  that  the  report  received  specifies  that  the  strap  had 
been  cut.  'Hacked  through'  is  the  actual  expression — and 
the  back  of  the  leather  outer  case  scratched  as  though  by  a 
knife." 

"  It  is  vital  that  I  should  examine  the  strap  and  see  those 
scratches!" 

The  Minister  answered: 

"To-morrow  morning  by  twelve  o'clock — I  can  obtain 
you  an  opportimity.  The  recovered  valise,  or  wallet,  or 
satchel,  will  be  brought  up  to  the  Admiralty  by  the  officer 
commanding  E-131.  She  has  not  yet  arrived  in  harbour. 
But  the  Commander  will  doubtless  receive  instructions  as 
soon  as  he  reports  himself."  He  continued,  gracefully- 
ignoring  his  previous  statement  that  the  Government  had 
decided  not  to  interfere:  "In  the  absence  of  the  Earl  of 
Clanronald,  now  yachting  in  Northern  waters,  it  is  obliga- 
tory that  the  War  Office  should  take  the  matter  in  hand. " 

The  very  tall  stranger  had  wheeled,  and  advanced  to  Sir 
Roland  with  a  smile  and  an  outstretched  hand  of  greeting. 
We  know  how  great  a  heart  beat  in  its  pulses.     Its  short. 


350  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

hard  grip  spoke  sympathy  and  understanding,  though  the 
voice  was  harsh  and  the  light  grey  eyes  stared  out  of  the 
brick-burned,  heavily-moustached  face  with  the  old  saga- 
cious, indomitable  regard.  He  said  after  a  word  or  two  had 
passed ,  the  Admiralty  Secretary  temporarily  occupying  the 
attention  of  the  War  Minister: 

"By  the  way,  you  will  be  interested  to  hear  something  I 
have  at  first-hand  from  Clanronald.  He  has  been,  as  per- 
haps you  know,  cruising  with  two  ancient  cronies.  Lord 
Gaynor  and  Colonel  Kaye,  in  his  steam-yacht  Helga,  along 
the  Danish  West  Coast  of  Jutland.  He  returns  the  richer 
by — what  I  may  term  a  imique  experience!" 

Sir  Roland  said,  meeting  the  Sirdar's  eyes  with  great 
certainty : 

"If  I  may  guess  at  the  nature  of  the  experience,  I  should 
hazard  that  it  was — an  attempt  in  the  kidnapping  line?" 

The  other  gave  his  short,  gruff  laugh: 

"You  have  hit  it.  They  carry  a  Wireless  installation  on 
the  Helga,  and  sparked  the  story  via  Cullercoats  to  Bred- 
ingley,  who  was  stopping  a  week-end  at  Doome.  The 
yacht  was  at  anchorage  in  the  outer  harbour  of  Esbjorg, 
some  twenty-eight  kilometres  from  the  frontier  of  Danish- 
Germany.  It  was  midnight.  Everybody  on  board,  includ- 
ing the  watch,  seems  to  have  been  asleep  except  Clanronald, 
who  was  roused  by  something  scraping  the  side  of  the 
yacht.  Presently  he  heard  stealthy  footsteps  on  deck,  and 
whispering.  He  was  squatting  on  his  bunk  with  a  brace 
of  loaded  revolvers  and  a  Winchester  repeating-rifle,  when 
the  intruders  opened  his  cabin  door!" 

"Did  any  of  them  survive  the  intrusion?  If  so,  Clan- 
ronald has — very  much  changed!" 

The  Sirdar  returned,  with  the  quirk  of  a  smile  lurking 
under  the  heavy  moustache  whose  brown  was  getting  flecked 
with  grey : 

"Well — the  Helga  has  recently  been  re-enamelled,  and 
Clanronald  is  faddy  on  the  point  of  his  new  paint.     Besides" 


Flotsam  from  the  North  Sea         351 

— the  quirk  deepened  into  a  laugh —  "he  thought  it  would 
be  more  useful  to  take  them  as  live  specimens  of  the  kind  of 
material  that  goes  to  make  up  the  crew  of  a  German  sub- 
marine." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  laughing.  Sir  Roland  in- 
quired : 

"  I  venture  to  hope  that  while  Clanronald  was  about  it  — 
he  collected  the  submarine?" 

"Unfortunately,  no!  And,  very  regrettably,  the  collap- 
sible boat  in  which  the  raiders  had  made  their  midnight 
visit  was  swamped  when  the  two  others — there  had  been 
four  of  them! — jumped  into  her  to  make  off.  Presumably 
they  could  swim  and  were  picked  up  by  the  submarine — 
Undersea  Boat  No.  14 — according  to  the  testimony  of  one  of 
the  prisoners.  The  other  of  whom — an  officer  and  leader  of 
the  foray — took  poison,  and  was  found  dead  in  the  cabin 
that  served  for  his  prison-cell.  The  other,  a  mere  seaman, 
is  too  dazed  with  terror  to  be  intelligible — according  to 
Clanronald.     But  the  whole  thing  is  interesting!" 

"Hugely  and  instructively.  As  shedding,"  said  the 
General,  "a  certain  light  upon  a  mystery  that  baffled  the 
wiseacres  in  1913.  I  refer  to  the  mysterious  disappearance 
of  the  engineer-inventor  Riesl  from  his  cabin  aboard  a  Ham- 
burg Line,  Leith-bound  steamer.  With  a  contract  in  his 
pocket  for  the  supply  of  crude-oil-consuming  marine  motor- 
engines  to  the  Navy  of  a  Power — other  than  the  German 
Government!" 

"Possibly! — possibly!  One  never  knows  what  forces  are 
working  beneath  the  surface."  The  set,  brick-dust  face 
and  grave  sagacious  eyes  of  the  great  soldier  seemed  to 
testify  to  his  complete  innocence  of  anything  like  a  double- 
entendre. 

He  ended  as  the  War  Minister  dismissed  the  secretary 
from  the  Admiralty,  and  turned  again  to  Sir  Roland,  saying 
in  his  most  pompous  tones: 

"Twelve  o'cloci:  to-morrow,  then,  General.     Meanwhile, 


352  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

pray  convey  to  his  parents  my  admiration — in  which  I  feel 
the  First  Lord  will  concur — of  the  remarkable  qualities 
manifested  by  young  Saxham!  Astonishing  devotion  to 
duty,  and  courageous  self-reliance!  He  should  have  lived! 
— he  would  have  made  a  noble  man!" 

Came  the  curt  reply: 

"He  is  alive  now!     I  am  convinced  of  it!" 

The  Minister  gave  the  speaker  a  glance  of  incredulity. 
It  was  so  very  clear  to  the  War  Secretary's  logical  mind 
that  the  child  and  the  man  were  drowned.  But  the  harsh 
voice  of  the  great  Field  Marshal,  England's  most  faithful 
friend,  who  was  to  succeed  him  in  his  place  of  power, 
answered  for  him : 

"One  would  expect  you  to  stick  to  your  guns,  General. 
Should  you  prove  right  before  I  sail  for  Egypt,  bring  him  to 
see  me!" 

"I  promise  that,  faithfully,  my  lord." 

They  shook  hands  and  parted.  It  seemed  a  long  week 
until  the  morrow  when  the  secret  of  Robert  Foulis  came 
home  to  roost  at  Whitehall.  But  it  ended,  and  twelve 
o'clock  brought  that  keenly-desired  opportunity  of  ex- 
amining the  cut  lockzstrap  and  the  empty,  knife-scored 
satchel  in  the  official  sanctum  of  the  First  Lord  Com- 
missioner for  the  Admiralty,  and  in  the  presence  of  that 
functionary. 

"There  seems — ah!"  the  First  Lord  mounted  a  pair  of 
gold-rimmed  pince-nez,  "to  be  something  in  the  nature  of 
an  address  scratched  upon  the  leather!" 

Sir  Roland  corroborated,  after  a  brief  inspection: 

"There  is,  most  undoubtedly.  And  the  address  is  that 
of  the  London  Headquarters  of  our  Organisation,  No.  looo, 
Victoria  Street." 

"Dear  me — dear  me!  Most  remarkable!  Now  here," 
said  the  Right  Hon.  gentleman,  breathing  asthmatically 
and  twinkling  through  the  gold-framed  pebbles,  "is  some- 
thing not  so  easily  deciphered.     A  rude  symbol,  something 


Flotsam  from  the  North  Sea         353 

like  a  fleur-de-lis  with  letters  at  either  side,  and  a  few  other 
meaningless  scrawls ! " 

"  It  is  not  3. fleur-de-lis, "  Sir  Roland  answered,  "but  a  fox- 
mask,  with  the  number  and  signature  of  my  Scout.  He 
belonged  to  the  Fox  Patrol,  331st  London.  Here  is  his 
troop-number,  22,  and  here  are  his  initials,  B.M.S. — 
Bawne  Mildare  Saxham.  It  is  perfectly  in  order!  In  this 
way  he  would  be  expected  to  sign  a  communication  to  his 
fellow-Scout.  And  the  marks  below,  I  can  assure  you,  are 
not  meaningless.  They  convey  that  there  is  trouble  of  a 
very  definite  kind.  In  addition  the  arrow,  here,  taking  the 
top  of  the  satchel  for  the  North  as  in  a  map — signifies, 
'Road  to  be  followed  East.'  "  He  added  with  a  stiffening 
of  the  facial  muscles  that  made  the  keen  face  as  hard  as  a 
mask  carved  in  boxwood : 

"And  followed  it  shall  be!" 

It  had  been  decided  amongst  those  who  controlled  such 
matters  that  the  British  Public  were  to  be  fed  with  the  tale. 
The  tapes  began  to  run  out  at  the  newspaper-offices  as  the 
General  took  leave  of  the  First  Lord  and  the  War  Minister 
and  got  into  his  waiting  car,  and  sped  away  to  Harley  Street 
to  tell  the  Dop  Doctor  how  the  Saxham  pup  had  proved 
worthy  of  his  breed. 

The  evening  papers  made  great  marvel  out  of  the  story, 
and  at  all  the  street  corners  of  London  and  the  suburbs 
broadsheets  lined  the  gutters,  proclaiming  in  huge  inky 
capitals: 

"Mysteries  of  the  sea.  Extraordinary  attempted 
CAPTURE  OF  British  yachtsman  by  pirates  in  Danish 
waters!  Miraculous  recovery  of  Clanronald  war- 
plan!  Submarine  in  North  Sea  fouls  bag  containing 
priceless  heirloom  stolen  from  Gwyll  Castle!  Last 
message  of  hero  boy  scout!" 


23 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

AT  NORDEICH   WIRELESS 

In  the  face  of  the  outrunning  tide, Undersea  Boat  No.  i8 
had  nosed  her  way  from  Norderney  Gat  to  Nordeich,  by  the 
deep-dredged  low-water  channel  of  which  Luttha  had  told. 
The  boy  had  been  roused  by  the  kick  of  a  foot  shod  with  a 
heelless  rubber  boot,  out  of  a  dog-sleep  on  the  vibrating 
deckplates  of  the  men's  cabin,  under  the  white  glare  of  the 
electric  globes.  The  man  who  kicked  him  hauled  away  the 
blue  blanket,  and  pitched  him  his  clothes,  yet  moist  and 
heavy  with  sea-water,  ordering  him  in  broken  English  to  get 
into  them  quickly  to  go  ashore. 

The  boy  obeyed,  stiffly,  for  he  yet  ached  in  every  limb 
from  the  resuscitative  rubbing  administered  by  Petty 
Officer  Stoll  and  his  assistant — and  his  temples  throbbed, 
and  there  was  a  singing  in  his  ears.  Perhaps  that  was  from 
the  smell  of  the  petrol!  One  breathed  petrol — devoured 
tinned  meat  stew  petrol-flavoured,  and  drank  soup  and 
coffee  made  with  petrol — judging  by  the  tang  upon  the 
palate — on  board  the  German  submarine. 

The  hatch  at  the  top  of  the  dripping  steel  ladder  was 
open,  letting  in  the  smell  of  the  sea  tanged  with  the  odours 
of  fish  and  rotten  seaweed  and  sewage.  One  emerged 
through  the  manhole  into  a  strange,  windless  woolly  world. 
Through  a  weeping  woolly-grey  mist,  grey,  greasy-looking 
water  lapped  and  licked  against  a  weedy  jetty  of  grey  stone 
alongside  which  U-i8  lay  with  the  fog  smoking  off  her  whitey 
grey  painted  steel  skin.  A  bluff -bowed  galliot,  a  yacht,  or 
two,  and  some  lighters  laden  with  bricks  and  cement  sat  on 
the  blue-grey  mud  of  a  small  harbour;  grey  and  white  sea- 
gulls were  feeding  on  the  mud,  gaily-painted  row-boats 
were  lying  on  the  shelving  beach  of  weedy  sand. 

354 


At  Nordeich  Wireless  355 

To  the  right-hand  a  Ughthouse  or  beacon  made  a  yellow 
blur  in  the  prevailing  woolHness.  Behind  one,  the  foggy 
land  seemed  mixed  up  with  the  foggy  sea,  even  as  the 
yellow-white  curd  mixes  with  the  whey  in  a  dish  of  rennet. 
North,  the  intermittent  beam  thrown  from  a  lighthouse 
came  and  went  in  sudden  winks.  Facing  to  the  mainland 
again,  one  made  out  east  of  the  quay  an  aggregation  of  tiled 
roofs  and  chimneys,  and  a  wooden  church-spire  with  a 
quaint  gilded  weathercock.  Running  south  were  black 
and  white  signal-posts,  buffers,  and  a  big,  barn-hke  railway 
station.  Beyond,  the  fog  came  down  so  like  a  curtain, 
that  the  shining  metals  of  the  permanent  way  ran  into  it 
and  ended  as  sharply  as  though  they  had  been  cut  off. 

There  was  a  trampling  of  feet  on  the  steel  ladder.  Heads 
showed  through  the  manhole,  and  a  rough  hand  caught  the 
boy  by  the  collar  of  his  pneumatic  jacket  and  jerked  him  out 
of  his  betters'  way.  Luttha  appeared  in  his  panoply  of 
yellow  oilskins,  passed  aft  and  went  up  on  the  platform, 
where  his  second  officer  and  another  stood  together  at  the 
rail.  Von  Herrnung  followed,  dough-pale,  and  wearing  an 
old  Navy  cap  in  place  of  his  goggled  helmet,  and  a  junior 
officer  came  after.  They  brought  the  tang  of  schnapps  with 
the  smell  of  their  oilskin  coats.  The  boy  had  seen  them 
drinking  and  nodding  to  each  other  at  the  narrow  table  in 
the  officer's  cabin,  as  he  had  hurried  into  his  clothes. 

"Gute  Reise!  Viel  Gliick !"  Luttha  had  shouted  to  von 
Herrnung,  and  waved  his  hand  with  a  heartiness  that  did  not 
seem  quite  real. 

"  Aiif  wiedersehen,  hesten  Dank ! ' '  von  Herrnung  had  called 
back  to  the  Commander,  and  set  his  foot  upon  the  one-rail 
gang-plank  by  which  a  seaman  had  connected  the  sub- 
marine with  the  quay.  And  then  he  had  drawn  it  back,  as 
though  the  salty  plank  had  burned  him.  For  a  party  of  tall 
grey  soldiers  with  brown  boots  and  belts,  and  spiked  hel- 
mets covered  with  grey  stuff  like  their  clothing,  came  tramp- 
ing along  the  quay  with  bayonets  ffxcd,  and  halted  at  a 


356  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

harsh  order  from  their  officer — and  von  Herrnung,  with  a 
shiny  grey  face,  and  grey  Hps  under  his  red  moustache,  had 
croaked  out  meaningly  to  Luttha: 

"My  thanks  for  this,  Herr  Commander!  We  will  settle 
the  score  one  day!" 

He  went  on  then,  and  the  officer  arrested  him.  And 
whik  Bawne  stood  staring,  taking  in  the  scene,  another 
brutal  hand  had  grabbed  him  by  the  scruff — lifted  him  as  a 
boy  lifts  a  puppy — and  slung  him  on  to  the  stones  of  the 
quay. 

"You  come  with  us!"  Somebody  spoke  to  him  in 
English.  It  was  von  Herrnung,  and  his  eyes  were  poisonous. 
with  hate.  "You  bear  your  share  in  this,  Her  Dearest." 
This  was  a  curious  nickname  by  which  the  Enemy  was  often 
to  address  Bawne.  "Where  I  go  you  will  go  also! — do  you 
understand?" 

The  officer  said  something  harshly,  making  an  imperious, 
gesture  with  his  drawn  sword,  and  von  Herrnung  saluted 
and  fell  silently  into  place  between  the  grey  files.  Then 
the  party  marched  along'  the  quay  between  rows  of  store- 
houses with  doors  painted  in  broad  horizontal  stripes  of 
black  and  whiuC,  and  passed  through  a  yard  and  a  big  open 
gate  at  the  end  of  it,  with  a  black  and  white  sentry-box, 
and  a  grey-uniformed  spike-helmeted  sentry  on  duty  out- 
side the  gate.  The  sentry  presented  arms,  and  the  party 
swung  through,  and  struck  into  a  wide  main-road  that 
crossed  the  railhead,  a  sandy  road  with  a  dyke  at  either 
side  of  it,  that  followed  the  curve  of  the  shore-line  east. 

Beyond  the  shore-line  the  North  Sea  fog  came  down, 
blank  and  drab  as  an  asbestos  curtain,  waiting  a  westerly 
breeze  to  roll  inland  and  blot  out  everything.  Between 
shore  and  road  were  the  clumped  houses  of  the  fishing- 
village,  and  a  church  with  a  wooden  spire,  shaped  like  an 
old-fashioned  needle-case.  Sand-dunes,  covered  with  sea- 
holly  and  bent  grass,  came  up  to  the  road.  But  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road,  beyond  the  dyke,  the  eye  traversed 


At   Nordeich  Wireless  357 

a  wide  expanse  of  dead,  flat  fenland,  drained  by  a  many 
branched  creek. 

Set  in  the  midst  of  the  fenland  were  buildings  of  some 
kind.  One  thought  of  barracks  in  the  same  enclosure  with 
a  martello  tower  or  a  powder-magazine,  like  that  in  Hyde 
Park.  But  two  strange  landmarks  sticking  up  into  the 
foggy  sky  altered  the  character  of  the  flat-roofed  structure 
of  grey  stone  standing  in  a  wide  expanse  of  gravel  enclosed 
by  a  strong  wooden  fence,  stained  with  some  drab  weather- 
resisting  composition,  and  entered  by  an  imposing  pair  of 
spike-topped  gates.  A  wide  dyke  full  of  sluggish  water 
girdled  the  fence.  You  crossed  by  a  wooden  swing- 
bridge  leading  to  the  big  gates.  When  you  approached 
them  by  the  road  that  branched  from  the  main-road  at 
right-angles,  you  reahsed  the  immense  height  of  two  hollow 
triangular  towers  of  grey-painted  steel  latts  and  girders 
that  straddled  over  the  flat  roof  of  the  squat  stone  building 
— the  shorter  tower  nosing  up  three  hundred  feet  into  the 
air,  and  its  big  brother  more  than  double  that  height, 
sheathing  its  sharp  point  amongst  the  leaden-hued  clouds, 
bellying  full  of  moisture  sucked  up  from  the  North  Sea. 

They  looked  alive  to  Bawne  in  a  queer  ugly  way,  throwing 
out  their  mile-long  antennae  to  the  supporting  poles,  linking 
their  metal  guy-ropes  to  solid  structures  of  stone  and 
concrete,  like  colossal  web-spinning  insects,  half-spider, 
half-mantis,  wholly  horrible.  And  they  reminded  him  of 
the  three  tall  Wireless  masts  rearing  over  the  Admiralty  at 
Whitehall,  and  Marconi  House,  in  the  Strand,  and  the  little 
one  that  straddled  over  the  telegraph-cabin  on  Fanshaw's 
Flying  Ground.  And  at  the  remembrance  the  salt  tears 
overbrimmed  his  raw  and  burning  eyelids,  blotting  out  the 
muscular,  vigorous  backs  of  the  men  who  walked  in  front  of 
him,  and  his  throat  felt  as  choky  as  though  he  had  swal- 
lowed a  whole  bull's-eye. 

There  was  a  sharp  order  to  halt,  and  boots  marked  time 
on  sandy  gravel.     A  grey-uniformed  soldier  of  the  two  on 


358  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

guard  outside  the  big  spike-topped  gates,  flanked  with  a 
black-and-white  sentry-box  on  either  side,  brought  his 
bayonet  to  the  slope  and  challenged  sharply.  A  sergeant- 
major  of  the  party  stepped  out  and  answered;  the  sentry 
bellowed : 

"Raus!" 

And  with  the  ruffle  of  a  side-drum,  the  gates  swung  open, 
the  guard  turned  out  of  a  stone  guardhouse  within,  and  the 
armed  party  with  the  prisoner  and  the  boy  marched  into 
the  gravelled  courtyard.  The  gates  shut,  and  von  Herr- 
nung  was  taken  off  to  a  block  of  buildings  distant  from  the 
central  erection  with  the  Wireless  towers.  There  was  a 
clock  over  the  doorway  of  the  guardhouse.  The  hands 
indicated  a  quarter  to  four. 

Bawne,  standing  shivering  in  the  morning  rawness, 
heard  the  infantry  officer  commanding  the  party  say  in  a 
loud,  harsh  voice  that  the  boy  was  to  be  kept  close  and 
sharply  looked  after.  Then  a  heavy  hand  gripped  him 
roughly  by  the  collar,  and  the  voice  belonging  to  the  grip 
shouted: 

"At  the  Herr  Lieutenant's  orders!" 

Whereupon  the  boy  was  summarily  thrust  before  the 
gruff- voiced  speaker  to  a  shed  behind  the  guardhouse — a 
shed  whose  planks  were  a-tremble  at  all  their  lower  edges 
with  ghttering  drops  of  North  Sea  fog.  He  was  helped  in 
with  a  kick,  scientifically  administered — the  big  key  crashed 
in  the  lock — and  one  was  free  to  sob  one's  bursting  heart 
out,  lying  face  downwards  among  the_hard,  clean,  shining 
straw-trusses  that  covered  the  floor  of  beaten  earth.  Some- 
how the  tears  relieved,  and  merciful  sleep  came  to  the  child, 
and  presently  he  awakened  under  the  oilskin  coat  that 
served  for  bed-covering,  to  the  rustling  of  the  straw  under 
his  head,  and  through  one  unglazed  aperture  that  admitted 
light  and  air,  shone  a  large,  lucent  moon — in  her  last  quarter, 
with  Saturn,  blazing  like  a  great  blue  diamond,  at  her  pale 
and  silvery  side. 


At   Nordeich  Wireless  359 

In  the  shed,  which  had  been  destined  but  luckily  not  used 
as  a  kennel  for  the  Adjutant's  Pomeranian  boar-hound,  the 
boy  remained  in  durance  vile  for  a  period  of  several  days. 
The  drills  and  parades,  the  buglings  and  drummings  that 
marked  the  ordinary  course  of  garrison  life,  alone  enlivened 
the  cramped  monotony.  He  was  given  coarse  food  and 
drink  three  times  a  day,  and  permitted  to  exercise  for  half- 
an-hour  in  charge  of  a  corporal  within  the  limits  of  the 
gravelled  courtyard.  Soldiers  were  drilling  there  on  most 
of  these  occasions,  big  men  in  the  brand-new  green-grey 
uniform  that  seemed  a  kind  of  Service  kit,  and  who  regarded 
Bawne  with  looks  of  quite  incomprehensible  malignancy, 
and  when  their  mouths  were  not  closed  by  Prussian  military 
discipline,  made  coarse  or  beastly  jokes  at  his  expense. 

You  are  to  suppose  a  pitifully  unequal  struggle  on  the  part 
of  the  boy  to  maintain  decency,  cleanliness,  and  self-respect 
under  these  conditions,  which  would  have  ended  in  hopeless 
lethargy  had  the  Saxham  pup  sprung  from  a  feebler  race. 
Two  things  helped  him  at  this  juncture.  The  Rosary  he 
said  in  his  straw  lair  at  night,  and  certain  stimulating  read- 
ing contained  in  a  sea-stained  and  grimy-paged  Scout's 
Notebook,  that  nobody  had  seen  him  with,  or  having  seen 
had  thought  it  worth  their  while  to  take  away.  You  can 
see  him  on  the  sixth  morning  of  captivity  squatting  on  his 
straw,  poring  over  the  Alphabet  of  the  Morse  Signalling 
Code,  the  Rules  for  First  Aid,  and  so  on,  following  the  ten 
precepts  of  Scout  Law. 

''Rule  No.  7.  A  Scout  obeys  orders  of  his  patrol-leader 
or  scout-master  without  question." 

He  nodded  his  head  as  he  read  the  words  and  his  heavy 
eyes  brightened.  He  pushed  back  the  dulled  and  rumpled 
hair  from  his  forehead  and  straightened  his  hunched  back. 

"Rule  A^o.  8.  A  Scout  smiles  and  whistles  under  all 
difficulties.  ..." 

The  smile  was  bravely  forced.  He  held  up  his  head, 
filled  his  lungs  with  air,  inflated  his  chest,  pouted  his  lips, 


360  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

and  began  to  whistle  Rule  Britannia.      And  at  the  second 
bar,  somebody  booted  the  door  heavily  and  a  thick  voice 
bellowed : 
.  "HaltdenMundl" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  soldier  who  was  Bawne's  jailor, 
and  the  whistle  quavered  and  broke  down.  And  as  the 
boyish  heart  swelled  to  bursting  and  the  irrepressible  tears 
brimmed  over,  a  musical  motor-horn,  some  distance  off, 
sounded  clearly  and  sweetly : 

' '  Ta-rara-ta  ra ! "  And  a  Prussian  officer's  voice  drowned 
out  the  sweetness  of  the  answering  echo,  shouting: 

' '  A  chtung !     Wache  heraus  I ' ' 

Bugles  sounded,  side-drums  beat,  there  was  a  crunching 
of  heavy  boots  upon  stone  and  gravel,  followed  by  the  click 
of  presented  arms,  and  the  groaning  of  the  heavy  gates 
swung  back.  Amidst  all  these  significant  noises,  you 
caught  the  purr  and  crackle  of  pneumatic  tyres  rolling  over 
the  wooden  bridge  into  the  courtyard.  As  they  stopped 
short,  a  bugle  sounded  imperatively,  and  hoarse  voices 
gave  the  order : 

''Helm  ah  f' 

And  a  multitudinous  shout  answered — a  thick,  short, 
crashing  utterance  that  suggested  the  fall  of  a  tree.  Three 
trees  fell  crashing,  and  then  in  a  little  still  of  awe  a  sharp, 
hollow  voice  answered : 

"  Danke,  meine  Kinden ! " 

And  the  boy  squatting,  listening  in  the  straw,  was  con- 
scious of  a  queer  tingling  sensation  that  made  his  hair  stiffen 
on  his  scalp  and  sent  odd  little  waves  of  shuddering  down 
the  whole  length  of  his  spine.  The  voice  was  not  melodious 
or  powerful.  But  it  set  the  nerves  on  edge,  and  made  you 
wonder  what  he  could  be  hke — the  man  to  whom  it  belonged. 
And  the  question  made  a  picture  in  the  mind,  of  a  mouth 
with  thin  lips  that  were  parched  and  discoloured,  a  cruel 
mouth,  matching  the  harsh  and  hollow  utterance. 

The  time  crawled  on  and  the  sun  climbed  high.     It  must 


At  Nordeich  Wireless  361 

have  been  noon  or  nearly  when  measured  steps  approached 
the  shed,  and  the  door  was  unlocked.  This  time  a  non- 
commissioned officer  who  had  kicked  Bawne  yesterday 
caught  hold  of  the  boy,  hauled  him  out  of  the  shed,  and 
made  at  the  double  towards  the  squat  stone  building 
bestridden  by  the  pair  of  Wireless  towers.  Their  intolerable 
shadows,  the  sun  being  nearly  overhead,  barred  the  big 
courtyard  with  wide  lateral  and  diagonal  bands  and  stripes 
of  blackness.  It  was  as  though  two  Brobdingnagian 
spiders  had  spun  there  a  pair  of  webs  of  incredible  size. 

There  were  soldiers  on  guard  with  fixed  bayonets  at  the 
open  doors,  that  led  into  the  square  low-ceiled  stone  vesti- 
bule. Before  the  two  wide  steps  stood  a  bright  yellow 
motor-car.  It  was  big,  roomy,  and  luxurious,  with  the 
Prussian  eagle  in  black  and  red  on  both  doors.  A  young 
officer  in  field-grey  and  flat  cap  sat  immovable  at  the  steer- 
ing-wheel. At  a  little  distance  waited  two  other  cars. 
Their  chauffeurs  wore  a  dark  blue  livery  with  silver  braid 
and  buttons,  and  these  cars  were  black-enamelled  and 
studiously  plain. 

Inside  the  vestibule  were  more  sentries  and  a  smau  body 
of  soldiers,  all  with  fixed  bayonets.  Also  three  dubious 
individuals  in  black  uniform  who  might  have  been  detectives 
or  not.  They  were  grouped  outside  a  heavy  door  on  the 
right  hand  as  you  entered.  Despite  the  presence  of  so 
many  persons  a  singular  quiet  reigned.  Footfalls  made  no 
noise  on  the  floor,  presumably  of  stone,  covered  with  thick, 
resilient  red  rubber.  There  were  no  windows,  light  being 
admitted  from  overhead  by  a  skylight  of  thick  opaline 
glass. 

I  have  said  that  quiet  reigned,  but  as  the  corollary  of  a 
sharp  harsh  voice  that  talked  without  cessation.  It  up- 
braided, denounced,  interrogated;  interrupted  conjectural 
answers  with  contradiction;  burst  out  anew  into  shrill 
denunciation,  and  switched  off  the  current  of  abuse  to  pelt 


362  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

its  object  with  questions  again.  It  rasped  the  nerves. 
Of  the  men  who  heard  it  some  grew  pale,  others  were  red 
and  sweated  freely.  When  it  broke  off  in  a  scream  like  a 
vicious  stallion's  neigh,  a  susurration  of  horror  passed  from 
one  to  another  of  the  erect,  silent,  and  rigid  men  waiting 
in  the  vestibule.  The  neighing  scream  was  followed  by  a 
small  commotion.  The  door  opened,  and  a  tall,  grey- 
moustached,  grey-cloaked  cavalry  officer,  in  a  silver  helmet 
crested  with  a  perching  eagle,  demanded — Bawne's  little 
German  serving  him  once  more  at  this  juncture : 

Water !     Immediately — a  glass  of  water ! ' '  and  vanished 
again. 

An  orderly  got  the  water,  passing  out  by  another  tall  door 
in  the  centre  of  the  vestibule  and  coming  back  with  a  filled 
tumbler  on  a  china  plate.  One  of  the  men  in  black  snatched 
it  from  him  and  knocked  officiously.  But  the  harsh  shrill 
voice  had  begun  to  rate  again,  and  when  the  door  was 
opened,  a  thick-set  officer  in  a  spiked  infantry  helmet,  with 
a  glittering  gold  moustache  and  sharp  blue  eyes  twinkling 
through  glittering  gold  pince-nez,  waved  the  water  away 
as  though  it  had  never  been  asked  for. 

"The  boy!"  he  said,  in  a  shrill  falsetto  whisper.  "Seine 
Majestdt  wants  the  boy!" 

Then  it  seemed  as  though  twenty  zealous  hands  propelled 
the  boy  towards  the  mysterious  room's  threshold.  The 
officer  in  pince-nez  grabbed  his  arm  and  pulled  him  briskly 
in. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 


THE  MAN  OF       THE  DAY 


You  were  in  a  square,  singularly  light,  though  windowless 
room  immediately  underneath  the  lower,  pointed  end  of  the 
biggest  Wireless.  The  room  was  lighted  along  the  top  of 
the  walls  on  two  sides  by  oblong  slabs  of  thick  opaque  glass 
with  many  ventilators  controlled  by  levers.  The  huge 
metal  ribs  and  supports  of  the  colossal  steel  tower  overhead 
were  built  deep  into  the  solid  stone  masonry.  Through  a 
massive  block  of  crystal  glass — the  insulator  on  which  the 
pointed  end  of  the  mast  rested,  your  vision  was  snatched  up 
— up  dizzily — through  the  vertical  labyrinth  of  metal  ribs 
and  girders,  until  it  ended  at  the  inner  extremity  of  the 
apex,  seven  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above.  The  shrill  song 
of  the  wind  amongst  the  steel  ribs,  and  spars,  and  guy-ropes, 
whose  ends  were  linked  to  reinforced  steel  beams  or  ground- 
anchors,  sunk  in  heavy  outside  foundations  of  masonry, 
hardly  reached  one  here.  But  from  the  dynamo-room  that 
absorbed  the  space  between  this  and  the  second  Wireless 
chamber,  you  heard  the  deep  moan  of  the  Goldberg  Alter- 
nator, its  rotor  speed  maintained  by  a  500  horse-power 
Krafft  engine,  sunk,  to  lessen  the  tremendous  vibration,  in  a 
solid  steel  and  cement  lined  power-house,  deep  below  tlie 
level  of  the  soggy  ground. 

The  boy's  wide  blue  eyes  took  in  the  wonder  and  the 
strangeness  of  his  surroundings.  Lightness  and  whiteness, 
a  ship-shape  neatness,  a  scrupulous  freedom  from  dust,  a 
dazzling  polish  and  burnish  on  surfaces  or  knobs  or  handles 
of  wood,  brass,  or  copper,  characterised  the  place.  About 
the  walls  were  metal  cylinders  with  pipes  and  induction- 
coils,  frames  supporting  reels  of  wire  in  rows,  and  brass 

363 


364  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

things  like  pincers  in  rows  above  them;  and  above  these, 
rows  of  shining  crystal  bull's-eyes  like  port-lights,  and  yet 
others  with  stars  and  circles  of  electric  bulbs. 

At  the  distant  end  of  the  long,  light,  shining  room,  the 
deck-like  run  of  the  polished  boards  was  broken  by  a  step 
leading  to  a  platform  where  the  rigidly-erect  figures  of  three 
men  in  dark  blue  uniform  sat  at  the  middle,  and  at  either 
end  of  a  long  narrow  table  burdened  with  instruments 
whose  use  Bawne  partly  knew.  The  midmost  operator, 
sitting  with  his  back  to  you,  wore  a  head-band  with  receiver 
ear-pieces,  beyond  which  his  ears,  large,  thick,  and  red  as 
quarter-pounds  of  beefsteak,  projected  in  a  singularh' 
grotesque  way,  The  man  seated  on  the  right  of  the  table 
had  a  paper-pad  and  pencil,  and  the  man  on  the  left  sat  in 
front  of  a  typewriter,  with  lowered  intent  eyes  and  fingers 
crooked  above  the  keys,  as  one  waiting  to  type  off  a  Wireless 
message,  and  the  tingling  desire  to  approach  and  see  the 
apparatus  more  closely  evoked  a  wiggle  on  the  part  of 
the  boy  that  was  grimly  checked  by  a  big  hard  hand 
that  gripped  his  arm.  This  reminded  him  that  he  was  a 
prisoner.  Like  von  Herrnung,  Bawne  thought  and — then 
upon  his  right  he  became  aware  of  von  Herrnung,  green  as  a 
drowned  man — and  with  all  the  stiffening  gone  out  of  him— 
wilting  over  the  supporting  arms  of  two  officers  of  the  garri- 
son. And  then  a  voice  said  something  shrilly  and  harshly 
— and  Saxham's  son  found  himself  looking  into  a  pair  of 
steel-blue,  shining,  flickering  eyes,  with  whites  curiously 
veined  with  red. 

The  man  to  whom  the  eyes  belonged  sat  immediately 
facing  you,  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  big  kneehole  writing- 
table  with  rows  of  drawers  in  its  pedestals,  and  official- 
looking  ledgers  upon  it,  also  files  of  papers,  dispatch-cases, 
three  big  inkstands,  and  the  shining  metal  pillar  of  a  tele- 
phone transmitter,  the  base  of  which  the  officer  gripped  with 
his  right  hand  as  he  leaned  forwards,  sharply  scrutinising 


The  Man  of  "The  Day"  365 

you.  The  hand  was  large  and  muscular,  with  short,  thick, 
crooked  fingers,  covered  with  jewelled  rings  that  sparkled 
in  me  sun. 

Half  a  dozen  other  officers  stood  at  some  little  distance 
behind  the  seated  personage.  .  .  .  Five  out  of  the  six  wore 
the  Service  dress  of  grey-green  serge,  with  spiked  helmets 
covered  with  the  same  material.  Badges,  buckles,  chain- 
straps,  and  the  hilts  of  swords  curved  or  straight  were  dulled 
to  rigorous  uniformity,  and  belts,  gloves,  and  boots  were 
of  earth,  not  tan-coloured,  brown.  Thus  much  Bawne 
grasped,  but  of  these  individualities,  save  one,  he  got  no 
clear  impression.  You  were  obliged  to  look  at,  and  think 
of,  the  man  sitting  in  the  chair. 

Those  strange  eyes  stung  as  they  fastened  on  you  and 
sucked  at  you,  somehow  making  you  think  of  a  tiger  lurking 
in  a  cave  of  ice.  They  were  shadowed  by  the  peak  of  a  grey- 
green  field-cap,  with  an  edge  of  vivid  crimson  showing  above 
its  deep  band  of  silver  lace,  oakleaf  and  acorn-patterned. 
He  wore  a  loose  grey  overcoat  with  silver  buttons,  thrown 
open  to  reveal  a  grey-green  single-breasted  .Service  jacket 
with  a  turn-down  collar  edged  with  silver  lace  and  faced 
with  crimson,  and  a  glittering  decoration  dangling  below 
the  hook.  But  as  he  was  of  the  short-necked,  fleshy  type  of 
man,  and  kept  his  head  well  down  and  thrust  forward, 
staring  you  out  of  countenance  over  a  grizzled  moustache 
with  upright,  bushy  ends — and  all  the  light  in  the  room 
came  from  overhead,  the  decoration  was  obscured  by  the 
shadow  of  his  chin.  A  sharp  chin,  meagrely  modelled, 
with  a  cleft  in  the  middle,  suggesting  petulance  and  vanity. 
The  chin  of  a  mediocre  actor  of  romantic  parts. 
"So  you  are  the  boy?" 

The  tobacco-stained  teeth  in  the  mouth  under  the  dyed 
moustache  were  filled  and  patched  with  gold  that  glittered 
when  he  spoke  to  you.  There  was  a  flash  of  yellow  metal 
now  as  he  added: 

"You  do  not  answer,  no?     Come  nearer,  boy!" 


366  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

His  legs,  short,  thick  legs  in  grey  riding-breeches  and 
brown  boots  with  beautiful  spurs  of  gold  and  steel,  stuck 
out  towards  you  under  the  table.  As  you  stepped  out 
briskly  to  lessen  the  distance  between  you,  he  pulled  the 
legs  back  sharply,  and  a  handsome,  dark  young  officer, 
standing  on  his  right,  put  out  a  brown-gloved  hand  warn- 
ingly,  as  though  the  border  of  the  big  Turkey  rug  on  which 
stood  the  kneehole  writing-table  were  a  frontier-line  that 
must  not  be  crossed. 

As  he  did  this,  the  seated  man  glanced  round  at  him, 
nodding  approval,  and  the  pale,  jagged  seam  of  a  scar  on 
his  left  cheek  showed  plainly  against  the  dark,  harsh,  fever- 
dry  skin.  With  the  slewing  of  his  head  the  decoration 
hanging  by  a  swivel  at  the  collar  of  his  single-breasted 
Service  jacket  flashed  into  the  light.  Bawne  saw  a  large 
Maltese  Cross  eight-pointed  and  blue-enamelled,  having  a 
black  eagle,  with  outspread  wings,  between  each  arm. 
Crossed  swords  in  diamonds  were  above,  surmounted  by  a 
diamond  Crown  Imperial.  And  a  black  and  white  ribbon 
supported  another  Cross  of  plain  black  edged  with  silver, 
at  a  buttonhole  of  the  Norfolk-cut  jacket  of  grey-green. 
Possibly  the  boy  had  guessed  in  whose  presence  he  stood, 
even  before  the  young  ofificer,  at  an  impatient  signal  from 
his  master,  said  in  excellent  English : 

"  I  am  commanded  to  tell  you  that  you  are  in  the  presence 
of  the  Emperor  of  Germany." 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 


PATRINE    IS    ENGAGED 


"  Don't  tell  me — not  that  you  ever  have — that  there  ain't 
such  a  thing  as  Providence!"  Thus  Franky,  after  lunch 
upon  the  fateful  Third  of  August,  from  the  hearthinig  of  the 
drawing  room  at  oo,  Cadogan  Place.  "When,"  he  went 
on,  "just  as  I'm  on  the  point  of  sendin'  in  my  papers  to 
please  you — good  old  England  kerwumps  into  War!" 
He  contintied,  as  Margot  shrugged  her  small  shoulders : 
"All  right,  best  child!  Bet  you  twenty  to  one  in  gloves 
it  comes  off ! — as  sure  as  the  Austrian  monitors  were  shellin' 
Belgrade,  and  the  British  Cabinet  were  sittin'  on  Sunday, 
and  the  weekly  rags  selling  like  hot  cakes,  when  you  and  me 
and  the  rest  of  the  congregation  were  slowly  oozin'  out  of 
Church.  Why,  the  Kaiser  and  the  Tsar  have  been  at 
loggerheads  since  Saturday.  German  troops  are  swampin* 
Luxembourg,  and  the  next  move  will  be  the  Invasion  of 
France.  There  We  come  in — and  the  rest  of  the  big 
European  Powers!  Like  a  row  of  beehives  kicked  over! — 
all  the  swarms  mixed  and  stingin',  and  Kittums'  little 
Franky  in  the  middle  of  the  scrum!" 

"Why  are  you  so — frightfully  keen  about  it?" 
Margot's  great  dark  deer-eyes  were  vaguely  troubled. 
She  got  up  from  her  writing-table,  a  lovely  thing  in  Russian 
tulip-tree,  the  shelf  of  which  was  graced  by  a  row  of  mascots : 
Ti-Ti  and  the  jade  tree-frog,  Jollikins,  Gojo,  and  half  a  dozen 
more. 

"Best  child,  I'm  not  keen!"  asserted  Franky.  "But  I'm 
pattin'  myself  on  the  back — gloatin*  over  the  knowledge 
that  I'm  not  a  bally  Has  Been — but  a  real  live  soldier — just 
when  I'm  likely  to  be  wanted  to  be  one!     Switch  on?" 

367 


368  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

He  added,  as  Margot  shook  her  head:  "My  grammar's  a 
bit  off,  but  I  know  what  I  mean  if  I  can't  express  it.  Here's 
a  telegraph-kid  on  a  red  spider.  Two  to  one  in  cough- 
drops  that  yellow  screed's  for  me!  Callin'  me  to  Head- 
quarters just  as  I'd  got  into  my  civvy  rags  to  spend  the 
afternoon  with  my  wife!" 

The  prophecy  proved  correct.  Franky  vanished  upstairs 
to  peel,  plunge  into  his  Guards'  uniform,  and  whirl  away, 
borne  by  a  taxi,  into  the  dim  conjectural  regions  known  as 
Headquarters. 

Margot  went  back  to  her  desk  to  re-read  a  type-written 
letter  from  the  Secretary  of  the  Krauss  and  Wolfenbiichel 
Frauenklinik  at  Berlin,  counselling  the  honoured  English 
lady  whose  introduction,  supplied  by  a  former  lady-client, 
was  specially  satisfactory! — to  secure  a  room  at  the  Insti- 
tute, by  the  payment  of  a  moiety  of  the  fee  in  advance. 
The  crowd  of  applicants  desirous  to  subject  themselves  to 
the  wonderful  "Purple  Dreams"  treatment,  was  so  large, 
the  accommodation,  by  comparison,  so  restricted,  that  to 
follow  this  course  would  be  the  only  wise  plan.  Similar 
treatment  could  be  obtained  in  Paris  and  Brussels,  but  to 
ensure  success  beyond  doubt  it  was  wisest  to  seek  it  at  the 
German  fountainhead.  One  hundred  guineas  would  secure 
admission  to  the  Berlin  Frauenklinik.  By  cheque  made 
payable  to  the  British  Agent  of  Professors  Krauss  and 
Wolfenbiichel,  Mr.  Otto  Busch,  coo,  Cornhill,  London, 
E.G.  It  would  be  advisable  were  the  English  client  to 
follow  her  remittance,  taking  up  residence  in  Berlin  within 
the  next  few  days.  Travelling  might  not  be  so  easy  in 
October,  mildly  hinted  the  Secretary  of  the  Institute. 

Why,  bosh!  what  utter  piffle!  Good  old  England  wasn't 
going  to  toddle  into  any  European  War  in  a  hurry,  decided 
Margot.  She  had  had  enough  bother  over  the  South 
African  biz.  Perhaps  if  Germany  was  having  a  rag  with 
Russia,  and  a  tiny  bit  of  a  scrap  with  France,  one  would 
have  to  get  a  passport,  and  travel  by  a  different  route  to 


Patrine  is  Engaged  ,369 

Berlin.  Perhaps  the  best  thing  would  be  to  go  now — and 
stick  the  boredom  of  a  three  months'  residence  in  the 
Kaiser's  capital!  Why  not?  Under  the  existing  circum- 
stances, one  woiild  be  bored  anywhere. 

She  drew  the  cheque,  and  enclosed  it  to  Mr.  Busch's 
address,  and  wrote  a  little  letter  in  a  huge  hand  to  the 
Secretary,  saying  that  she  had  done  this  and  was  obliged 
by  his  advice.  Then  she  'phoned  to  the  Club  to  ask  Patrine 
to  come  round  to  tea  at  00,  Cadogan  Place.  Miss  Saxham 
was  not  there,  according  to  the  hall-porter,  but  might  be 
found  at  AA,  Harley  Street.  There  Margot  ran  her  to 
earth.  Yes,  Pat  would  come  with  pleasure!  but  upon 
condition  that  Lady  Norwater  was  alone. 

"Of  course!"  Margot  remembered.  "She's  in  mourning 
for  the  pretty  kiddy-cousin!  I  must  be  getting  stupid,  or 
I'd  have  thought  of  that!" 

But  when  the  tall  figure  passed  under  the  Persian  portiere 
of  the  Cadogan  Place  drawing-room,  it  was  arrayed  in  a 
revealing  gown  of  pale  rose  lisse  with  the  well-known  stole 
of  black  feathers  and  a  tall-crowned  hat  of  golden  braiding 
topped  the  Nile  sunrise  hair. 

"Why,  I  thought—"  Margot  began: 

"I  know!  Do  you  think  it  horribly  unfeeling?"  The 
speaker  stooped  to  kiss  the  soft  cheek  of  the  little  creature 
■curled  up  in  the  corner  of  a  favourite  sofa  in  a  favourite 
attitude  which  conveyed  an  impression  of  Margot's  having 
no  feet.  Patrine  did  not  look  at  all  horrid  or  unfeeling  as 
she  said,  winking  back  the  tears  that  had  overbrimmed 
her  underlids,  " My  heart  is  in  crape  if  my  body  isn't!" 

"I  know!"  Margot's  lovely  eyes  looked  sympathy. 
^'I  remember  how  fond  you've  always  been  of  the  little 
cousin." 

"  Uncle  Owen  and  Lynette  won't  believe  that  the  darling's 
drowned,"  Patrine  went  on.  "But  I  can't  hope!  I'm 
not  of  the  hoping  kind !  When  I  shut  my  eyes  I  seem  to  see 
24 


370  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

Bawne  fighting  to  keep  afloat — then  sinking.  It's  as 
though  he  called  me,  and — it's  horrible!"  She  shuddered. 
"It's  horrible!" 

"And — Count  von  Herrnung?  The  German  Flying 
Man?"  Margot  touched  the  large  white  hand  next  her. 
"You  know  what  a  bad  hand  I  am  at  saying  things  that  are 
consolatory  and  cosy.  Couldn't  rake  up  a  single  text  for 
my  life — or  if  I  did  I'd  quote  'em  wrong  end  topside.  Like 
the  callow  curate  who  assured  the  weeping  widow  that 
'Heaven  tempers  the  wind  to  the  lorn  sham! ' " 

"I'll  let  you  off  the  texts,  not  being  a  weeping  widow!"' 

But  Patrine's  pale  cheeks  burned.  Margot  pursued,  not 
looking  at  them: 

"Rhona  Helvellyn  told  me  there  was  nothing  serious 
between  you.  Indeed,  she  said  you  rather  hated  him 
than  otherwise.  But  of  course  you're  sorry  he's  drowned, 
naturally!" 

There  was  a  silence.     Then: 

"Yes,"  Patrine  agreed,  "I  rather  hated  him  than  other- 
wise ! 

"Ah!"  Margot's  Httle  face  was  sage.  "  It's  a  pity  you 
don't  care  for  some  nice  man  or  other!" 

"Isn't  it?" 

"  But  you  will  one  day.  It's  much  nicer  to  live  with  your 
husband  than  with  your  sister.  Though  I  never  had  a 
sister, "  added  Margot.  Then  her  mind,  light  and  brilliant 
as  a  humming-bird,  flitted  to  another  subject.  "Rhona  and 
her  two  Militants  lunched  with  me  on  Sunday.  Awfully 
down  on  their  luck,  all  three.  The  Grand  Slam  they'd 
planned — the  surprise-packet  for  the  Mansion  House  Ban- 
quet had  had  the  lid  put  on  it  by  the  Police.  Fancy  Scot- 
land Yard  finding  out  anything !  But  it  had,  for  Rhona  got 
a  mysterious  note  warning  her  that  she'd  be  dropped  on 
before  she  could  open  her  head.  So — the  Bishops  toddled 
through  their  speeches  without  being  interrupted!  Sit 
down  and  light  up.     These  Balkan  Sobranies  are  tophole!'* 


Patrine  is  Engaged  37i 

"I  can't  stay!"  But  Patrine  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  dipped 
in  the  ever-brimful  silver  box,  and  kindled  a  cigarette. 

"Where's  His  Nibs?"  she  asked.  For  not  even  the 
chastening  of  bereavement  could  cure  Patrine  of  slanginess. 

"Called  to  B.P.G.  Headquarters  suddenly."  Margot 
blew  rings.  "Or  doing  duty  for  some  pal  or  other  at  the 
Tower.  Don't  bother  about  him !  Tell  me — why  can't  you 
stay  with  me?" 

* '  Aunt  Lynette  wants  me,  for  one  thing.     And " 

"And  who  for  the  other?" 

"A  man!"  Patrine  sent  a  thin  blue  spiral  of  cigarette 
smoke  twirling  upwards  from  her  pursed  lips.  Intently  she 
watched  it  climbing  and  spreading.  When  it  faded  between 
her  absorbed  eyes  and  the  Futurist  mouldings  of  the  lapis 
lazuli-grounded  ceiling  whereon  a  silver  comet  swung  in  a 
great  elliptical  orbit  about  a  golden  central  Sun,  she 
resumed : 

"A  man " 

"That  makes  two  men!"  said  Margot  shrewdly, 

"No,  only  one.  A  man  I'm  going  to  marry.  Rather 
soon,  too,"  said  Patrine  calmly,  and  put  her  cigarette  into 
her  mouth  again. 

"Pat!" 

Margot  was  staring  at  her  blankly. 

^'Well,  my  dinkie?" 

■"Isn't  this  frightfully  previous?" 

Patrine  removed  the  cigarette  to  say: 

^'  It  depends  on  how  you  look  at  things." 

■"But — when  did  you  meet?" 

^'In  Paris." 

^'Do  I  know  him?" 

^'No,  luckily  for  me!" 

Margot's  small,  amazed  face  dimpled  a  little  at  the  com- 
pliment. 

"Is  he  nice?" 

^'I  think  so!" 


372  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

"In  Our  Set?" 

"I  don't  think  so!  He's  a  Flying  Man  by  profession. 
Now  you  know  nearly  as  much  as  I  do,"  said  Patrine. 
"And  I've  to  be  getting  back  to  Harley  Street."  She  rose 
from  the  sofa,  towering  over  her  small,  indignant  friend. 

"You're  not  going  out  of  this  room  until  you  tell  me  the 
rest  of  it !     What  is  his  name,  and  when  did — it — come  off  ? " 

"His  name  is  Alan — and  he  only  asked  me  on  Wednesday, 
when  he  came  to  Harley  Street.  He  has  called  every  day 
since  that  horrible  i8th  of  July,  but  this  time  he  came  to 
bring" — Patrine  choked  a  little — "Bawne's  Scout  staff  and 
smasher.  They  had  been  forgotten  in  the  dressing-shed  at 
the  Flying  School.  Lynette  was  too  ill  to  go  down  to 
receive  them.  I  had  to  instead — and  the  sight  of  them 
broke  me  up. " 

"I— see!" 

"And,  "  Patrine  went  on,  "he — Alan — was  being  sympa- 
thetic, when  Uncle  Owen  came  in." 

"My  hat!"  Margot  sat  up,  her  small  face  alight  and 
sparkling.  "The  Doctor-man  with  the  chin  and  eye- 
brows! Did  he  give  you  unlimited  wigging  or  relent  and 
bless  you  like  the  heavy  uncle  in  a  proper  French  Comedy  ? " 

"He  saw  how  things  were  between  us.  He  wasn't 
astonished.  He  was  very  kind.  He  is  always  kind!"  said 
Patrine,  swallowing.  "If  I  really  believed  God  were  as 
good  as  Uncle  Owen,  I  shouldn't  be  afraid  to  die." 

"He  makes  me  feel  like  an  earwig  under  a  steam-roller," 
afhrmed  Margot.  "And  the  charming  aunt.  Does  she 
cotton  to  the  engagement?" 

"  Lynette  is  not,  for  the  present,  to  be  told.  I  asked  that. 
It  seems  so  cruel  to  be  happy  when  she  is  so  broken- 
hearted." 

"Umps!  Then — Irma  and  your  gay  and  giddy  mater? 
How  do  they  take  it?" 

"They  haven't  been  asked  to  take  it  any  way." 

"Oh  well!     Love  is  good  while  it  lasts,"  Kittums  said 


Patrine  is  Engaged  373 

from  the  summit  of  a  pedestal  of  experience,  "but  if  I  could 
change  back  to  Margot  St.  John  again " 

"You  wouldn't!" 

"Wouldn't  I,  that's  all!  This  horror  that  November 
brings — that's  coming  every  day  closer!  .  .  .  Pat — I 
haven't  told  Franky  yet,  that's  to  be  got  over!  But  I've 
definitely  settled  to  go  to  that  Institute  in  Berlin  where 
women  can  have  babies  without  knowing  anything  about 
it — under —  Bother!  I  never  can  remember  the  name  of 
that  drug!" 

Patrine  sat  up.  Her  face  was  curiously  expressionless. 
She  said,  crushing  out  the  last  spark  of  her  cigarette-end 
against  the  face  of  a  Chinaman  on  the  lacquer  ash-tray  that 
occupied  a  little  stand  beside  the  sofa  with  the  silver  Sob- 
ranie  box : 

"You  told  me  something — you  showed  me  the  pink  book 
with  the  pretty  title,  'WEEP  NO  MORE  MOTHERS'— 
wasn't  that  the  name?  You've  made  up  your  mind?  Does 
it  cost  the  earth?" 

"Two  hundred  for  patients  of  the  superior  class — wohlge- 
boren  clients.  Half  paid  in  advance!  Stiff! — but  to  make 
sure  of  not  suffering  I'd  plank  a  thou' !  It's  a  nightmare, 
and  a  Day-mare,  that  haunts  me  all  the  clock  round. 
That's  why  I'd  change — and  be  Margot  St.  John  again! 
That's  why  I  can't  whoop  with  joy  when  my  friends  tell  me 
they're  going  to  be  sphced!" 

Patrine  got  up. 

"Oh! — well!  Perhaps  I  shall  escape.  After  all — it's  a 
lottery!" 

"Not  for  big,  splendid  women  like  you.  You  were  made 
to  be  a  mother,  Pat!" 

"Don't!" 

She  kissed  Margot  hastily  and  went  to  the  door. 

"Stop!"  Margot  scrambled  off  the  sofa.  "You've  for- 
gotten the  most  important  thing  of  all.  Hasn't  'Alan'  got 
a  surname  by  any  chance?" 


374  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Patrine  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  with  something  of 
the  old  smile. 

"Rather!     What  do  you  think  of  Sherbrand? " 

"What  do  I  think  of  Sherbrand?  How  odd!  It's 
Franky's  family  name!" 

"Queer  coincidence.  But  my  Sherbrand  hasn't  any 
relatives  in  the  Peerage! — or  if  he  has,  he  hasn't  told  me! 
I'll  butt  you  wise  when  I  know  him  well  enough  to  ask  him 
about  them.  You  see,  the  whole  thing  has  been  beautifully 
sudden!" 

"Bring  him  to  lunch  at  the  Club  to-morrow.  You're  not 
in  mourning,  and  if  you  were  it  wouldn't  matter.  It's 
simply  a  family  afEair,  if  he's  really  Franky's  cousin.  So, 
say  yes. " 

"Very  well,  if  he'll  come!" 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

THE  WAR  CLOUD   BREAKS 

Patrine  kissed  her  friend  again,  and  went,  leaving  Kittums 
in  a  whirl  of  astonishment.  To  Franky,  presently  returning 
from  the  conjectural  region  known  as  Headquarters  she 
announced : 

"Here's  something  hke  news!  Pat  Saxham — the  girl 
with  the  Nile  sunrise  hair  that  you  don't  like! — is  going  to 
marry  a  Flying  Man,  And  his  name  is — the  same  as 
yours!" 

"By  the  Great  Snipe!  you  don't  say  so!" 

Franky,  shm  and  dapper  in  the  scarlet  Guards'  tunic  and 
crimson  sash,  divested  himself  of  his  sword,  dropped  his 
immaculate  buckskin  gloves  into  his  forage-cap,  and  sighed 
with  undisguised  relief  as  the  attentive  Jobling,  who  had 
heea  hovering  in  the  background,  disappeared  with  these 
articles.  Then  he  proceeded  carefully  to  choose  a  cigarette 
from  the  silver  box  of  Sobranies,  lighted  it  up,  bundled 
Fits  out  of  her  master's  corner  of  the  sofa,  and  dropped 
into  it  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Sherbrand.  .  .  .  Must  be  tne  aviator-fellow  we  met  in 
S'aris-  The  chap  whose  hovercr  was  bein'  tested  by  the 
•swells  of  the  French  S.  Ae!  Saved  your  life  and  snubbed 
■me  for  askin'  him  to  dine  with  us!  Well,  that's  what  I  call 
•a  cannon  off  the  cush  for  the  Saxham  girl!"  His  dislike  of 
■  her  betrayed  itself  in  his  tone.  "Must  be  the  same  man! 
•supposin'  him  short  of  a  father!  Hilton  of  Ours  showed  me 
an  advertisement  in  the  B.M.D.  column  of  The  Banner  this 
-afternoon  briefly  announcin'  my  Uncle  Sherbrand's  death. 
Never  read  The  Banner — that's  how  I  missed  it.  Can't  say 
il  feel  much  like  puttin'  crape  on  my  sleeve  in  any  quantity," 

375 


376  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

went  on  Franky.  "My  Uncle  Noel  has  been  the  Family 
Skeleton,  poor  old  chap!  since  that  affair  in  1900.  No 
doubt  his  son's  cut  up — wouldn't  be  decent  of  him  not  to  I 
But  at  any  rate  it  brings  him  nearer  these — "  Franky 
stuck  out  a  beautifully-cut  pair  of  red-striped  auxiliaries 
ending  in  dazzling  patent-leather  Number  Eights,  and 
craning  over  Fits,  who  had  jumped  upon  his  knees,  regarded 
them  critically,  ending  after  a  pause — "By  one  life  out  of  the 
three  that  stand  between.  Don't  be  so  gushin',  old  girl!" 
The  rebuke  was  for  Fits,  who  had  taken  advantage  of  her 
master's  attitude  to  lick  him  on  the  chin. 

Margot  crinkled  her  slender  eyebrows  and  moved  rest- 
lessly among  her  big  bright,  muslin-covered  cushions  as  she 
asked : 

"  Is  this  Volapuk  or  Esperanto?  For  mercy's  sake  don't 
be  obscure!  Why  is  this  Flying  Sherbrand  nearer  your 
shoes  by  one  life  out  of  three?  What  has  he  got  to  do  with 
your  shoes  at  all?" 

"  Don't  you  switch  on? "  He  lifted  his  sleek  brown  head 
and  turned  his  neck  in  the  setting  of  the  gold-encrusted 
collar  badged  with  the  Scottish  Thistle,  and  stared  at 
Margot  with  the  brown  eyes  that  had  seemed  so  beautiful 
under  the  awnings  of  the  Nile  dahabeyah,  and  were  only 
stupid  now. 

"Have  you  forgotten?  Don't  you  twig,  best  child? 
Suppose — for  the  joke  of  it — there's  War,  and  I  get  wiped 
out  tryin'  to  keep  up  the  fightin'  traditions  of  my  family 
and  get  a  bit  of  gun-metal  to  hang  on  a  ribbon  here. "  He 
glanced  down  at  the  left  breast  of  the  red  coat,  guiltless  of 
anything  in  the  decoration  line.  "Then — unless  the  child" 
— his  tone  grew  gentle — "our  kiddy  that's  coming,  happens 
to  be  a  boy — my  Cousin  Sherbrand  steps  into  my  billet. 
He's  the  next  heir  to  the  Norwater  Viscounty.  Look  in 
Burke  or  Whittaker  if  you  don't  believe  me !  Get  down,  old 
lady,  you're  coverin'  me  with  white  hairs!"  He  bundled 
Fits  off  his  knees,  got  up  and  rang.     "A  man  ought  to  be 


The  War  Cloud   Breaks  377 

here  from  Armer's, "  he  told  the  servant  who  responded. 
"  Armer  and  Co.,  Pall  Mall,  MiHtary  Tailors.  Send  him  up 
to  my  room  and  tell  Jobling  to  help  him  with  all  those  cases 
and  things.     No !  don't  send  Jobling ! — send  Dowd ! " 

The  said  Dowd  being  Franky's  soldier  servant,  between 
whom  and  the  civilian  Jobhng  reigned  a  profound  mutual 
contempt. 

"What  is  Dowd  going  to  do?" 

"Oh!  only  goin'  to  help  overhaul  my  Service  kit  and  so 
on,"  Franky  responded  Hghtly.  "What  with  gettin'  leave 
and  bein'  married  I've  hardly  sported  kharks  since  last 
Autumn  Slogs.  Wouldn't  do  to  find  myself  too  potty  to  get 
into  the  regulation  tea-leaves  in  case  my  country  called. " 

"What  rot!  ..." 

But  Franky  had  swung  out  of  the  room  and  clattered 
upstairs  with  Fits  close  upon  his  heels.  Fits,  who,  ordi- 
narily unwilling  to  be  out  of  sight  and  sound  of  her  master, 
now  adhered  to  him  like  a  leech,  or  his  shadow;  whining  and 
fidgeting  in  his  absence,  as  though  her  feminine  mind  were 
beset  by  haunting  apprehensions  of  some  sudden  parting,  or 
impending  loss.  .  .  .     Long  afterwards  Margot  wondered: 

"If  I  had  loved  him  as  Fits  loves  him — should  I  not  also 
have  felt  that  foreshadowing  dread?" 

But  she  was  conscious  only  of  her  own  physical  discomfort 
and  the  increasing  weariness  that  movement  brought  her. 
Sharp  discontent  peaked  and  pinched  the  tiny  features. 
She  caught  a  reflection  of  them  in  a  screen-mirror  and 
shuddered.  With  every  day  that  dawned  now,  their  wild- 
rose  prettiness  faded.     By-and-by — 

"  If  I  were  as  good  to  look  at  as  I  used  to  be  in  June — or 
even  a  month  ago!"  she  wondered — "would  he  leave  me  as 
he  is  leaving  me  to-night — to  go  down  to  the  House?  Don't 
I  know  that  the  House  means  the  Club,  or  the  music-hall,  or 
a  card-party !  Why  do  men  get  the  best  of  everything  and 
never  have  to  pay  the  bill?" 

She  dined  in  a  tea-gown,  and  when  Franky,  still  in  that 


37^  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

strange  mood  of  suppressed  excitement,  attired  to  four  pins 
in  the  magpie  evening  garb  of  civilized  life,  had  kissed  her 
and  said:  "So-long,  Kittums,  little  woman!  I'm  going 
down  to  the  Big  Talk  Shop  for  a  bit.  Expect  me  back  on 
the  doormat  when  the  Mouthpieces  of  the  Nation  have  done 
swoppin'  hot  air!"  she  tucked  up  her  feet  on  the  big  sofa 
in  her  charming  drawing-room  and  read  "WEEP  NO 
MORE,  MOTHERS,"  until  the  pink  pamphlet  with  the 
gilt  sunrise  stamped  upon  it  grew  heavy  in  the  tiny  hand. 
Then  she  rang  for  Pauline  and  betook  herself  to  bed. 

The  bedroom  was  blue-green  as  a  starling's  egg,  its 
painted  walls  adorned  with  delicate  lines  of  black  and 
silver.  Perhaps  you  can  see  Kittums,  under  her  Brittany 
lace  coverlet  amongst  the  big  frilled  pillows  in  one  of  the 
narrow  black  oak  bedsteads  standing  side  by  side  on  a 
carpet  of  deep  rose.  A  silver  night-lamp  burned  under  a 
dome  of  sapphire  glass  on  her  night-table,  and  an  electric 
clock  noiselessly  marked  the  hours.  Lying  thus,  wrapped 
about  with  all  the  swaddlings  of  Civilisation,  this  dainty 
daughter  of  the  Twentieth  Century  strove  in  blind  revolt 
against  Nature,  the  huge  relentless  Force  that  was  slowly 
grinding  her  down.  The  ant  that  gets  fed  into  the  mill- 
hopper  with  the  grain  might  resent  the  millstone  after  the 
same  fashion.  Ridiculous,  but  infinitely  pathetic,  the 
tragedy  of  an  infinitesimal  thing. 

What  did  Franky  comprehend  of  her  terrors,  her  fore- 
bodings? Even  Saxham's  counsels  were  a  man's  counsels, 
his  advice  a  man's  advice.  "  Face  your  ordeal!  do  not  flee  it, 
lest  you  encounter  something  even  more  terrible!"  Not  more 
terrible  for  oneself,  mind  you!  but  for  that  unknown,  con- 
jectural being,  referred  to  by  Franky  with  such  foolish 
tenderness. 

The  child  always!  Never  Margot!  She  set  her  little 
teeth,  staring  out  into  the  blue-green  dusk  from  among  her 
pillows.  What  if  it  were  to  be  always  so?  "My  boy," 
"  My  son, "  for  ever,  instead  of  "  My  wife." 


The  War  Cloud   Breaks  379 

It  was  a  breathless  night.  A  hush  of  suspense  brooded 
over  the  huge,  hot  city,  such  as  prevails  before  the  breaking 
of  a  storm.  Sentences  from  the  Secretary's  letter  came 
back  to  her  as  she  tossed  under  the  cool  light  coverings: 

"Wiser  not  to  delay,  lest  travelling  should  become  difficult. 
It  will  be  advisable  indeed  for  the  gracious  lady  to  start  as  soon 
as  may  be.  English  bank-notes  are  negotiable  here  to  some 
extent.     A  sum  in  gold  is  most  convenient  to  bring. " 

Why  hang  back?  Why  hesitate  because  one  expected 
opposition  from  Franky?  Why  not  slip  ofE  on  the  quiet 
without  a  hint  to  him?  What  a  perfectly  tophole  idea! 
One  could  pack  secretly,  get  funds  from  one's  Bank,  and 
skip  with  Pauline  via  Ostend  to-morrow !  Berlin  was  a  dull 
place,  but  anyhow  one  had  got  to  be  dull  for  some  months 
yet.  The  thing  could  be  arranged  while  Franky  was  absent 
on  duty  at  the  Tower,  or  on  one  of  his  mysterious  errands  to 
Headquarters.  One  could  cable  to  him  afterwards  from  the 
Frauenklinik  at  Berlin. 

An  electrical  thrill  of  energy  and  purpose  volted  through 
the  humming-bird  brain  under  the  silken  brown  waves. 
Margot  tossed  back  her  coverings  and  sat  up  suddenly  in 
bed.  Her  great  eyes  gleamed  like  a  lemur's  in  the  light  of 
the  night-globe.  She  would  steal  that  march  on  Franky, 
she  told  herself,  to-morrow,  or  at  the  latest,  the  day  after. 
Wouldn't  it  be  Ai  ? 

The  small  face  dimpled  into  mischievous  smiles.  She 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it  in  a  mirror  on  the  opposite  wall  and 
kissed  her  little  hand  to  Margot  with  saucy  gaiety.  If 
Franky,  down  at  Westminster,  could  only  know  what- 
Kittums  was  planning!  She  had  a  vision  of  the  Houses  of 
Parliament  under  the  white-hot  August  moonlight,  out- 
lined in  bluish-green  and  dazzling  silver  against  a  back- 
ground of  glittering  black.  Like  a  Limoges  enamel,  she 
told  herself.  The  long  lines  of  electric  arc-lights  stretching 
over  the  bridge,  up  Whitehall  and  down  Victoria  Street — 
all  along  the  Thames  Embankment — strings  of  diamonds — 


38o  That  Which    Hath  Wings 

crowds  and  crowds  of  people  .  .  .  talking  bosh  about  War 
when  there  wouldn't She  was  asleep. 

Asleep,  while  packed  thousands  waited  under  the  blue 
glare  of  the  arc-lights  for  the  rising  of  the  Curtain  on  the 
World  Tragedy,  of  which  four  yearlong  Acts  have  been 
played  out.  For  the  tag  of  which  Humanity  is  waiting 
with  held  breath,  too  weary  even  to  cry  out:  "How  long,  0 
Lord  ? — how  long  ?  " 

Prone  to  assume  strange,  angular  attitudes  when  speak- 
ing, the  Foreign  Secretary  hung  over  and  clutched  at  the 
dispatch-box  before  him,  as  though  it  literally  contained 
that  most  malignant  of  all  the  swarm  of  Evils  that  issued 
from  the  Box  of  Pandora,  as  he  told  his  hearers  of  the 
rejection  of  the  German  bribe  and  warned  them  of  the 
imminence  of  a  Declaration  of  War.  Then,  amidst  increas- 
ing, deepening  excitement,  the  Prime  Minister  read  the 
appeal  of  the  King  of  the  Belgians,  and  told  of  Great 
Britain's  ultimatum  to  Germany.   .   .   . 

No  wonder  those  close-packed  crowds  of  sturdy  Britons 
waited  under  the  blue  glare  of  the  arc-lamps  to  hear  Big 
Ben  bell  the  midnight  hour.  As  the  great  voice  boomed 
Twelve  from  the  illuminated  square  of  the  dial  amidst  the 
striking  of  the  countless  clocks  of  London,  a  tremendous 
roar  of  cheers  acclaimed  the  pipping  of  the  egg  of  Fate  and 
Destiny,  echoed  by  other  crowds  in  distant  thoroughfares, 
spreading  in  waves  to  the  unseen  horizon,  whose  East  was 
pregnant  with  the  Kaiser's  Day. 

That  Fourth  of  August;  Eve  of  the  Feast  of  British 
Oswald,  King,  soldier  and  Saint,  whose  Address  to  his 
Northumbrian  warriors  before  the  battle  of  Denisburn, 
fought  against  Pagan  Cadwalla  in  633,  the  Catholic  Church 
enshrines  in  Her  Chronicles: 

"Let  us  all  kneel  and  jointly  beseech  the  true  and  living 
GOD  ALMIGHTY  in  His   Mercy  to  defend  us  from  the 


The  War  Cloud   Breaks  381 

*         doughty  and  fierce  enemy.     For  He  knowelh  that  we  have 
undertaken  a  just  War.  ..." 

"Whereupon,"  says  the  Venerable  Bede,  "all  did  as  the 
King  commanded.  And  advancing  towards  the  enemy  with 
the  first  dawn  of  day,  they  won  the  victory  their  Faith 
deserved." 

And  before  midnight  of  this  pregnant  Fourth  of  August, 
from  the  great  Wireless  Station  of  Eilvise  in  Hanover,  Ger- 
many flung  round  the  world  this  vital  message  to  all  her 
mercantile  Marine: 

"War  declared  on  England!  Make  as  quickly  as  you 
can  for  a  neutral  port!" 

On  the  outbreak  of  War  the  British  Navy  cut  the  All 
German  cables.  One  by  one  the  German  Colonial  Wireless 
Stations  were  dismantled.  When  the  great  station  at 
K&mina  in  Togoland  fell,  the  only  remaining  link  in  the 
system  was  between  the  Fatherland  and  the  United  States. 

Dawn  outlining  the  silken  blinds,  vied  with  the  blue 
glimmer  of  the  night-lamp  as  Margot  wakened,  to  hear,  in 
the  hush  that  precedes  the  Brocken-hunt  of  Sloane  Street 
motor-traffic,  Franky's  low,  urgent  appeal: 

" Kittums !     Kittums,  best  child!" 

"What  on  earth  did  you  wake  me  for? "  said  a  sleepy  and 
distinctly  cross  voice. 

"Couldn't  help  it!  I  simply  had  to  tell  you!"  Franky 
began. 

The  little  hand  touched  the  electric  clock-button  and  on 
the  ceiling  wavered  a  gigantic  dial  of  yellow  brightness. 

" Had  to\  At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning!  When  I  was 
having  such  a  tophole  dream !  Thought  I  was  back  at  the 
Club  in  my  three  dear  rooms  with  the  Adams  doors  and 
chimney-pieces — and  Pauline  came  in  with  a  huge  basket  of 
white  flowers — and  I  asked:  'Who  are  they  for  ?'  And  she 
said:  'For  Mademoiselle!'     And  I  was  Margot  St.  John — 


382  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

and  had  never  been  married!"  There  was  .infinite  wistful- 
ness  in  the  little  voice. 

"White  flowers  mean  death,  don't  they,  when  you  dream 
of  'em?  And  I'm  sorry  your  dip  in  the  Bran  Tub  of  Matri- 
mony has  turned  out  such  a  bad  investment.  What  I  came 
to  tell  you  should  revive  your  hopes  of  making  a  better  one, 
my  child!" 

That  jarring  note  of  mingled  resentment  and  irony,  how 
new  and  strange  it  sounded  to  Margot !  Until  this  moment 
Franky's  voice  had  never  been  anything  but  gentle.  It  was 
.gentle  now  as  he  said,  at  his  dressing-room  door: 

"Finish  your  sleep.  I  was  rather  a  brute  to  wake  you!" 
He  was  going  without  a  backward  glance. 

"  Come  back !  Come  off  it !  Don't  be  dignified ! "  Mar- 
.got  called  after  the  retreating  figure.  "I'm  quite  awake 
now,  so  you'd  better  tell.     What's  on?" 

He  came  back  to  the  bedside,  looking  tall  and  shadow}»in 
the  blue  dimness.  Margot  put  up  a  little  hand  and  patted 
liis  cheek.  There  were  wet  drops  upon  the  smooth,  warm 
skin.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  had  walked  home,  and  it  had  been 
Taining.     Or — 

"  Franky  I     You're  not " 

He  captured  the  little  hand  and  took  it  in  both  his  own, 
and  squeezed  it.  He  said  in  a  cheerful  but  rather  choky 
voice : 

"Of  course  not!  And — the  news  could  have  waited. 
Only — since  midnight  England  and  Germany  have  been  at 
War.  The  Big  Scrap  is  three  hours  old.  First  battalion  of 
Ours  is  under  orders  for  the  Front — I've  exchanged  out  of 
the  Second  with  Ackroyd — too  sick  a  man  for  fightin'  just 
now,  luckily  for  me.  You  know  Ackroyd.  Used  to  flirt 
with  him  frightfully — to  give  me  beans  when  I'd  vexed  you 
when  we  were  first  engaged.  When  do  we  go,  did  you  ask? 
Liable  to  be  off  at  any  old  minute.  By-bye,  little  woman. 
Too  late  to  go  to  bed — heaps  of  things  to  attend  to.  God 
bless  you!     See  you  at  brekker — or  lunch,  if  I've  luck.  " 


CHAPTER  L 

THE  EVE  OF  ARMAGEDDON 

KiTTUMS,  upon  that  fateful  morning,  coming  down  to  break- 
fast and  finding  no  Franky,  was  annoyed.  One  might  just 
as  well  have  had  breakfast  in  bed.  She  didn't  want  any, 
but  Cook  would  be  hurt  if  the  chowder^  and  eggs,  and 
croquettes  of  chicken  weren't  eaten.  Therefore  Margot 
ate — to  avoid  wounding  the  cook.  The  daily  papers  she 
left  untouched,  knowing  that  War  would  leap  out  from  the 
huge  capitals  heading  the  columns  and  strike  her  in  the  eyes. 

She  had  herself  dressed  and  'phoned  for  the  car.  The 
house  did  not  seem  a  place  to  stay  in,  somehow.  Dowd  was 
busy  in  his  master's  room,  ordering  Jobling  about  in  loud 
authoritative  tones  and  being  waited  upon  by  the  maids. 
Even  Pauline,  ordinarily  scornful,  referred  to  him  as  "  Mon- 
sieur Dowd"  instead  of  "zat  man  Dow!'' 

Once  in  Sloane  Street,  the  War  rushed  at  you.  Groups  of 
men,  young,  old  or  middle-aged,  stood  talking  at  every 
street-corner,  newspapers  rustled  in  every  hand.  You 
couldn't  escape  the  papers.  Huge  flaring  headlines  shrieked 
from  the  broad-sheets  in  the  gutters  and  on  the  railings : 
"War  Declared!  Ultimatum  Expired.  British  Fleet 
Ready  for  Battle.  Invasion  of  Belgium  by  German 
Army  Corps!"  The  drapery  salesman  who  was  to  win  the 
Victoria  Cross,  called  from  the  top  of  a  Knightsbridge 
motor-bus  to  the  grocer's  assistant  who  was  to  receive  the 
Medaille  Militaire  at  the  doughty  hands  of  Joffre.  .  -  . 
The  budding  airman  who  was  to  bring  down  a  Zeppelin 
single-handed  chuffed  past  on  a  motor-cycle — the  girls  who 
were  to  make  shells  for  British  guns,  or  pack  made  ones  with 
T.N.T.    and   kindred     explosives,    tripped    along   in   their 

383 


384  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

transparent  hobble-skirts,  to  meet  Alf  and  Ted  at  the  Tube. 
And  neither  Alf,  who  subsequently  took  five  Huns  prisoner 
by  the  single  hand,  shepherding  them  back  to  the  British 
lines  with  dunts  of  the  gun-butt  and  sarcasms  more  pointed, 
nor  Ted,  who  threw  himself  down  over  the  exploding  bomb, 
dying  that  his  comrades  in  the  trench  might  live,  dreamed 
what  kind  of  chick  would  pip  Fate's  egg  for  him  or  her 
presently.  Yet  the  dullest  face  wore  a  new  expression,  in 
the  tamest  eyes  burned  the  light  of  battle  I  Unquenched  it 
burns  in  them  still,  after  four  dreadful  years  of  War. 

The  Club,  akeady  deserted  by  August  holiday-makers, 
would  be  utterly  abandoned  to  chimney-sweeps,  charwomen 
and  window-cleaners,  and  yet  Margot  told  the  chauffeur  to 
drive  to  the  Club. 

Turning  out  of  Piccadilly  she  discovered  Short  Street  to 
be  blocked  by  taxi-cabs.  An  endless  procession  of  tele- 
graph-boys plunged  in  and  out  between  the  thudding  swing- 
doors  of  the  vestibule.  The  vestibule  was  congested  with 
battered,  dusty  ladies,  ladies'  maids  even  dustier  and  more 
battered,  and  travelling  bags  battered  and  dusty  to  the 
nth  degree. 

Some  of  the  bags  were  bursting,  not  a  few  of  the  maids 
were  hysterical.  All  the  returned  travellers  were  telling 
their  adventures  at  once.  The  air  was  thick  with  excla- 
mations, explanations,  cries  and  ejaculations.  Unfed, 
unslept,  baggageless  and  penniless  in  many  instances,  the 
members  of  the  Ladies'  Social — seeking  health,  or  novelty, 
in  half  the  pleasure-resorts  upon  the  map  of  Europe — had 
come  hurtling  1jack  to  Short  Street  like  leaves  driven  before 
the  furious  blast  of  War. 

"Has  anything  happened?" 

Lady  Norwater  addressed  this  query  to  the  Club  hall- 
porter,  a  bald  person  of  habitually  .slow  movements  and 
singularly  bland  address.  The  man  gnashed  his  teeth  at  her, 
uttering  a  sound  between  a  groan  and  a  snarl — made  as 
though  to  tear  non-existent  hair, — leaped  with  astonishing 


The  Eve  of  Armageddon  385 

nimbleness  over  a  pile  of  luggage,  and  vanished.  M argot 
would  have  made  a  note  of  his  conduct  in  the  Complaints 
register,  but  that  the  hall-table  was  obliterated  by  heaps  of 
rugs,  dust-cloaks  and  waterproofs.  Wondering,  she  made 
her  way  into  the  big  General  Room  on  the  ground-floor. 

Here  travel-creased,  dust-smeared  members  sat  in  voluble 
rows  on  the  comfortable  sofas,  or  reclined  speechless  in  the 
capacious  armchairs.  Medical  men,  hastily  summoned  by 
'phone,  moved  noiselessly  from  patient  to  patient.  Hus- 
bands and  male  friends  listened  not  unmoved,  to  piteous 
recitals  of  adverse  experiences  undergone  on  enem.y  ground. 

Kittums,  snatched  into  the  whirl,  moved  from  friend  to 
friend,  gathering  experiences.  Mrs.  Charterhouse,  with  her 
Pekinese  png  and  her  maid,  had  just  arrived  at  Homburg  to 
undergo  treatment  for  a  twenty-two-inch  waist  when  the 
War  Cloud  gathered  monstrous  on  the  horizon.  Had  not 
her  Swiss  doctor  written  a  warning  instead  of  a  prescription 
the  white  and  golden  Cynthia,  Mademoiselle  Mariette  and 
Chin-Chin,  would  at  this  moment  have  been  languishing  on 
rye  bread  and  bean  coffee  in  a  Teutonic  jail. 

"As  it  is,  we've  spent  a  whole  week,  and  every  sou  we 
had  on  us  making  the  journey!"  said  Cynthia,  in  her  plaint- 
ive tones.  "They  held  us  up  at  Frankfurt,  Basel,  and  Ge- 
neva! What  inquisitions,  what  scowling  suspicious  looks! 
To  be  hunted  and  suspect  makes  you  wicked,  I've  found  out ! 
When  we  got  to  Paris  at  four  yesterday  morning  and  took 
a  rickety  fiacre  to  the  Palais — all  the  taxis  have  vanished! — 
I  could  have  prayed  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  roll !  But  at  the 
Palais  all  was  confusion.  The  hotel  was  shutting  up — every 
male  servant  called  to  the  Reserve.  We  got  to  the  '  Spitz ' — 
the  same  experience  there!  Exhausted,  I  sat  on  something 
in  the  vestibule — it  moved,  groaned,  and  I  found  it  to  be 
the  wreck  of  Sir  Thomas  Brayham.  He  and  Lady  Wathe, 
his  man  and  her  maid,  who  have  been  all  through  July  at 
Franzenbad  in  the  Egerland, — reaching  Paris  after  awful 
adventures,  had  all  four  been  hurled  out  in  the  same  way. 

25 


386  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

One  of  those  jiggety  motor-omnibuses  took  all  of  us  to  the 
Couronne.  They  were  full  to  the  roofs  and  cellars,  but 
they  wedged  us  in,  somehow!  Then,  for  two  days  Sir 
Thomas  tore  round  Paris  trying  to  get  laissez-passers/' 
She  turned  her  lovely  eyes  upon  a  large,  stertorously-breath- 
ing  but  otherwise  inert  object  reclining  with  closed  eyes 
and  folded  hands  in  the  biggest  of  the  Club  armchairs. 
"Didn't  you,  Sir  Thomas?" 

"Beparr?" 

Brayham,  waking  with  a  bewildered  stare,  regarded  the 
charming  Cynthia  uncomprehendingly  until  the  Goblin, 
sitting  opposite,  centre  of  a  knot  of  bosom  friends,  repeated 
the  query: 

"  Didn't  you  run  about  Paris  for  passes  for  two  days?" 

"No!"  bounced  out  Brayham,  now  aroused,  and  purpling 
under  the  coal-dust  that  begrimed  his  large,  judicial  visage. 
He  added,  with  a  vestige  of  his  King's  Bench  manner,  as  the 
Goblin  stared  at  him  in  concern  for  his  mental  state:  "I 
retain  the  use  of  my  reason,  dear  friend!  But  I  will  not 
consent  that  the  varied  tortures  of  the  abominable  ordeal  I 
have  undergone  could  possibly  be  packed  within  the  nut- 
shell limits  of  forty-eight  hours!     Mph!" 

So  dust-covered  was  the  ex-Justice  that  the  very  act  of 
shaking  his  head  rebukingly  at  the  Goblin,  raised  a  cloud 
that  made  him  sneeze.  He  uttered  the  curious  composite 
sound  that  heralds  sternutation,  drew  out  a  voluminous, 
coal-dusty  handkerchief,  stared  at  it  indignantly,  and  in  the 
very  act  of  returning  it  to  his  pocket — fell  asleep  again. 

"A  perfect  wreck,  as  I  said  just  now!"  whispered  Mrs. 
Charterhouse  to  Kittums. 

"How  I  congratulate  you,  dear  Lady  Wastwood, "  said 
the  Goblin,  "on  not  having  gone  abroad!" 

"Was  it  so  horrid?"  asked  Trixie,  sympathetically,  arch- 
ing the  eyebrows  that  resembled  musical  slurs. 

"Was  it  so —  "  Lady  Wathe  shrugged  her  thin  shoulders 
and  gave  the  ghost  of  one  of  her  rattling  laughs.     "If  to 


The  Eve  of  Armageddon  387 

fight  your  way  back,  stage  by  stage,  amidst  inconceivable 
difficulties,  obstacles  and  insults,  is  horrid !— if  to  travel  for 
two  long  days  and  nights  in  trains  crowded  to  suffocating 
excess  merits  the  term—"  She  loosened  the  quadruple 
string  of  superb  Oriental  pearls  that  tightly  clipped  her 
stalk  like  throat  and  went  on:  " If  it  comes  under  the  head- 
ing to  find  yourself  and  your  friends — in  tatters  after  a 
suffocating  struggle! — packed  with  sixty  other  squalid 
wretches  in  a  luggage-van  en  route  for  Dieppe !  If  to  sit  for 
three  hours  on  your  jewel-case,  waiting,  in  a  crush  of  con- 
gested humanity,  for  the  arrival  of  the  Newhaven  boat — if 
to  fight  as  with  beasts  at  Ephesus  to  gain  its  gangway— if  to 
fall  in  a  heap  on  the  sodden  deck — to  He  there  lost  to  every- 
thing but  the  fact  that  the  waves  that  drench  you  are  British 
waves,  and  the  British  coast  is  slowly  crawling  nearer ! — if 
all  this  and  how  much  more,  can  be  lumped  under  the 
term  of  horrid,  it  has  been,  dear  Lady  Wastwood,  horrid  in 
the  extreme!" 

Lady  Wastwood's  small,  triangular,  white  face  with  the 
V-shaped  scarlet  mouth,  looked  enigmatical.  She  arched 
the  thick  black  slurs  that  were  her  eyebrows  again,  and  said 
not  without  intent,  to  her  crony  Cynthia  Charterhouse: 

''Who  would  have  dreamed  only  three  weeks  ago,  when 
that  excessively  long-legged  and  extremely  good-looking 
Count  von  Herrnung  sat  here  and  talked  to  us  about 
German  women  and  German  Supermen — that  we  should  be 
at  War  to-day  with  Germany?" 

' '  Poor  Count  Tido ! ' '  Something  rattled  in  the  Goblin's 
meagre  throat  as  though  she  had  accidentally  swallowed 
some  of  her  pearls.  "That  dreadful  report  in  The  Wire 
made  the  Franzenbad  treatment  disagree  with  me  horribly ! 
To  be  drowned  in  that  commonplace  North  Sea  crossing, 
upon  the  very  eve  of  realising  the  one  ambition  of  his 
life!  For  he  hated  us  so  thoroughly!  His  Anglophobia 
was  a  perfect  obsession.  Poor  dear  Tido!  One  might 
call  it  a  wasted  career!"     The  speaker  dried  a  tear  and 


388  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

* 

continued:  "His  family  will  be  frantic.  You  know  he  was 
to  have  been  married  in  October!  Baroness  Kriemhilde 
von  Wolf ensbragen-Hirschenbuttel.  Immensely  rich !  Her 
father  has  large  interests  in  the  pearl-fisheries  of  German 
New  Guinea.  Her  betrothal  gift,  a  superb  black  and  white 
pearl,  the  Count  always  wore  as  a  mascot.  Poor  Baroness  1 
She  will  be  inconsolable.  Marriage  means  the  first  draught 
of  real  freedom  to  young  German  girls!" 

Mrs.  Charterhouse  said  in  her  sweetly  venomous  way: 

"Miss    Saxham   bears   up — under   the    circumstances!" 

" Under  what  circumstances,  might  one  presume  to  ask? " 
Then,  reading  aright  the  ambiguous  smile  of  Mrs.  Charter- 
house, the  Goblin  rattled  out  her  characteristic  laugh: 

"What  absurdity!  You  refer  to  a  mere  dinner-table 
flirtation  in  Paris.  The  mere  rapprochement  of  atomes 
crochus !  Miss  Saxham  and  Lady  Beauvayse  dined  with  us 
on  the  night  of  the  Grand  Prix.  Poor  Tido  was  certainly 
struck  with  her.  I  remember  he  talked  about  her  eyes  and 
figure  afterwards.  But  her  hair  being  so  black  and  growing 
so  heavily — did  not  please  him.  He  found  the  effect — I 
think  his  term  was — 'too  crepuscular. ' " 

"  Ah !  You  throw  a  ray,"  said  Mrs.  Charterhouse  in  that 
sugared  way  of  hers,  "on  a  mystery  that  has  intrigued  me. 
Now  I  know  why  Miss  Saxham  went  to  the  Atelier  Wiber  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  got  her  crepuscular  tresses  changed 
to  terra-cotta ! " 

"Not  saffron?  Now,"  said  Lady  Wastwood,  pensively 
tilting  her  own  green-gold  head  and  elevating  her  arched 
black  eyebrows,  "I  should  have  called  that  shade  saffron 
or  tumeric.  Who  do  you  suppose  footed  the  bill  for  the 
process?  The  wretch  Wiber  simply  won't  look  at  you  under 
four  hundred  and  fifty  francs!" 

"Perhaps  Vivie  Beauvayse — "  suggested  Mrs.  Charter- 
house. 

"  I  think  not.  Vivie  preferred  the  crepuscular  effect.  It 
contrasted  capitally  with  her  own  style  of  colouring.     You 


The  Eve  of  Armacreddon  389 


must  have  noticed,  they  arc  seldom  seen  going  about  to- 
gether as  they  used.  Dear  Lady  Wathe,  do  you  feel  faint? 
Can  I  get  you  anything?" 

For  something  had  clicked  behind  the  Goblin's  pearls,  and 
she  had  suddenly  stiffened  in  her  seat.  The  superb  figure  of 
Patrine  Saxham  had  entered  by  the  swing-doors  leading 
from  the  vestibule  followed  by  a  tall,  broad-shouldered 
young  man  in  loose  grey  tweeds,  whose  left  sleeve  dis- 
played a  band  of  black  significantly  new. 

"Can  that  be  Miss  Saxham?  It  must  be! — her  type  is 
so  unusual!  Not  having  seen  her  since  the  night  of  the 
dinner  I  referred  to  I  did  not  quite  grasp  the  meaning  of 
your  references  to  ingredients  common  in  Indian  curries. 
Of  course,  I  understand  now!"  The  Goblin  surveyed  the 
tall,  pliant  figure  with  the  dead  beech-leaf  hair  through  her 
lorgnette  before  she  leaned  forwards  and  roused  the  sleeping 
Brayham  by  a  brisk  application  of  the  instrument.  "Look, 
Sir  Thomas !     Would  you  have  known  Miss  Saxham  ? " 

"Beparr!  .  .  .     Wharr?  .  .  .     God  bless  my  soul,  no!" 

Brayham,  turning  in  the  armchair  as  the  Zoo  walrus 
turns  in  his  concrete  pond,  surveyed  Patrine  with  a  blood- 
shot stare. 

Silly  girl !  Spoilt  her  looks ! "  he  snorted.  ' '  Handsome 
as  the  doocc  with  her  gipsy-black  tresses.  Won  her  bet. 
Won't  get  her  ring  now  though,  unless  von  Herrnung  paid 
before  he  flew ! ' ' 

"Was  there  a  bet  between  them?  How  is  it  you  never 
told  me  ?  Have  I  deserved  this  from  you  ? ' '  demanded  Lady 
Wathc  indignantly,  as  Mrs.  Charterhouse  and  Lady  Wast- 
wood  exchanged  glances  and  smiles. 

Sorry !  .  .  .  Forgot !  .  .  . "  Brayham  gobbled  apolo- 
getically. "  Man  I  know  happened  to  be  close  to  'cm  leav- 
ing Spitz's  Restaurant  that  Sunday  night  in  Paris.  Told 
me  he  heard  von  Herrnung  lay  Miss  Saxham  his  magpie 
pearl  solitaire  against  a  bit  o'  Palais  Royal  paste  she  was 
wearing — that  she  wouldn't  change  the  colour  of  her  hair! 


390  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Made  the  appointment  for  her,  with  Wiber — 'Postiches 
Artistiques,'  and  so  on,  Rue  de  la  Paix.  He  bragged  of  it 
afterwards  at  the  Cercle  Moderne !  Dam  Germans!  no  idea 
of  decency!  Why  do  Englishwomen  intrigue  with  'em? 
Bounders  that  kiss  and  tell!" 

There  was  a  significant  pause,  broken  by  the  Goblin's 
shrillest  peal  of  laughter.  The  ex- Justice,  whose  vitality 
was  low,  folded   his  hands  and    dozed    again.     Then 

"Now  we  know  who  footed  the  bill,"  said  Cynthia 
Charterhouse  in  dove-like  accents.  While  Trixie  mur- 
mured in  the  vexed  ear  of  Margot : 

"Kitts,  my  dinkie,  you  are  a  pal  of  the  Saxhams.  How 
far  had  the  affair  really  gone?" 

"There  was  no  affair!"  said  Margot's  sweet  little  voice, 
very  clearly,  "  Pat  rather  hated  Count  von  Herrnung  than 
otherwise!" 

"Judging  by  the  mute  evidence  of  her  hair — "  began 
Mrs.  Charterhouse,  languidly.  How  Margot  loathed  these 
women,  erstwhile  her  chosen  friends  and  associates,  tearing 
with  greedy  beaks  and  vicious  claws  at  the  reputation  of  an 
unmarried  girl.   .   .  . 

"Her  hair  belongs  to  her!  She  can  bleach  it  if  she 
wishes!"  The  little  figure  rose  to  its  altitude  of  four  feet 
seven  inches  and  surveyed  the  scandalmongers  with  wrath- 
ful eyes.  "I  have  said  that  there  was  nothing  between 
Miss  vSaxham  and  Count  von  Herrnung" — the  little  voice 
was  crystal-cold:  "I  should  be  extremely  obliged  to  all  of 
you  if  you  will  understand  this  clearly!  Miss  Saxham  is 
engaged  to  my  husband's  cousin,  Alan  Sherbrand. " — Had 
Franky  heard  that  stately  reference  to  my  husband,  he 
would  have  been  "bowled,"  to  quote  himself.  "Franky 
likes  him,  and  so  do  I,  tremendously!  We're  both  keen 
on  their  bringing  off  the  match!" 

There  was  another  resounding  silence.  Brayham  snored 
melodiously.  Then  Trixie  Wastwood  said  with  her  Pierrot 
smile : 


The  Eve  of  Armageddon  391 

"  Really,  Kitts,  it  was — hardly  cricket  not  to  have  warned 
us!" 

While  Mrs.  Charterhouse  added  in  tones  of  iced  velvet: 

"Regard  me  also  as  prone  beneath  Miss  Saxham's  Num- 
ber Eight  shoes.  Did  you  say  her  fiance  was  a  cousin  of 
Lord  Norwater's?  Not  possibly  the  son  of  the  uncle  who 
died  quite  recently?  Captain  the  Hon.  Noel  Sherbrand, 
late  of  the  Royal  Gunners.  .  .  .  My  husband  used  to 
know  him  before — people  left  off!" 

"  It  is  the  same.  He  muddled  his  career  somehow,  and — 
most  people  cut  him!  But  he  is  dead,''  said  Margot  very 
deliberately,  "and  his  son,  if  we  have  no — "  the  delicate 
cheeks  flushed  with  sudden  vivid  crimson — "his  son  is 
perfectly  tophole  and  Franky's  next  heir.  We  met  him  in 
June  in  Paris,  and  so  did  Pat  Saxham !  How  do  any  of  you 
know  she  didn't  tint  her  hair  to  please  him.'" 

"Possibly  she  did!  But,  according  to  Sir  Thomas — it 
was  the  other  man  who  paid!" 

" Odd,  isn't  it?  In  this  world, "  said  the  Goblin  with  her 
crackling  laugh,  "the  other  man  invariably  pays  the  bill! 
And  so  the  young  gentleman  over  there — who  is  quite  re- 
markably good-looking  in  the  blond  Norman  style — and 
who  is  going  to  marry  Miss  Saxham — succeeds  to  Lord 
Norwater  in — a  certain  eventuality!  May  one  be  per- 
mitted to  hope,  dear  Lady  Norwater,  that  Fate  and  your- 
self will  combine  fortuitously,  to  keep  the  cousin  out  of  the 
House  of  Peers!" 

"Rude,  ill-bred,  horrid  woman!"  thought  Margot, 
clenching  her  little  teeth  to  keep  back  these  epithets. 
" How  dare  she  twit  me  with — that!  How  dare — "  Then 
her  hot  flush  sank  away  and  a  mist  came  before  her  eyes, 
and  she  would  have  fallen,  but  that  Trixie  Wastwood 
jumped  up  from  the  sofa  and  threw  about  the  little  figure  a 
kind,  supporting  arm. 

"I've  got  you!  You're  not  going  to  faint,  Kittums,  are 
you?     Forgive  us,  my  dinkie!     What  pigs  we  have  been!" 


392  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"Heckling  the  tomtit  for  defending  the  saffron-crested 
blackbird!  I  rather  agree  with  you,"  admitted  Mrs. 
Charterhouse  as  Margot  freed  herself,  saying  it  was  nothing, 
and  proudly  moved  away.  "We  women  are  horribly 
spiteful,"  continued  Cynthia.  "Yes,  we  are  spiteful. 
Lady  Wathe!  I  am  perfectly  in  earnest.  What  is  the 
reason?  Will  anything  cure  us?  Do  somebody  tell  me! 
Colonel  Charterhouse  would  say  it  is  beca.use  we  eat  too 
much  rich  food,  walk  too  little,  automobile  too  much,  and 
want  some  useful  work  or  other  to  occupy  our  minds!  He 
is  coming  here  to  lunch  with  me — he  was  quite  touchingly 
anxious  to  be  invited!"  Her  beautiful  eyes  widened  as 
the  swing-doors  thudded  behind  three  entering  masculine 
figures,  "Why,  here  he  is  with  Lord  Norwater,  and  your 
boy,  Trixie!  All  three  in  khaki!  What  a  day  we  are 
having!" 

She  added,  as  her  handsome  middle-aged  Colonel  made 
his  spurred  way  through  the  ever-thickening  crush  to  her: 

"  I  am  enlightened !     So  this  was  your  surprise ! " 

"Not  half  as  big  as  mine  when  I  found  they  were  willing 
to  take  me.  'Fit  as  a  fiddle,'  according  to  the  M.  0. 
Gad!" —  he  went  on,  as  his  wife  made  room  for  him  on  the 
settle  by  her  side — "as  willingly  as  though  he  had  been  some- 
body else's  husband,"  Lady  Wathe  said  subsequently — 
"  It's  to  my  golf  I  owe  it — these  A. M.S.  sawbones  finding  me 
in  the  pink!  And  instead  of  a  back-seat,  what  do  you 
think  they've  given  me?  Command  of  the  Third  Reserve 
Battalion  of  the  blessed  old  Regiment,  the  Loyal  North 
Linkshires,  vice  Crowe-Pinckney,  kicked  out  by  a  gouty 
toe!  .  .  .  How's  that  for  an  oldster  of  fifty-five,  .  .  . 
Eh,  what?"  His  chuckle  was  that  of  a  Fourth  Form 
athlete  picked  to  supply  a  gap  in  the  School  Eleven.  And 
Cynthia's  beautiful  eyes,  as  she  slipped  her  hand  into  the 
Colonel's,  looked  at  him  as  the  boy's  mother's  might  have 
looked  ugon  her  son. 

Lady  Wastwood's  Pierrot  smile  might  have  played  upon 


The  Eve  of  Armageddon  393 

the  reunited  couple  mockingly,  but  that  the  unexpected 
apparition  of  her  boy  Wastwood  in  single-starred  khaki, 
adorned  with  the  .badge  of  a  crack  Hussar  Regiment,  girt 
with  the  Sam  Browne  and  narrow  officer's  shoulder-strap, 
and  clad  as  to  the  legs  in  spurred  brown  butcher-boots — 
dimmed  her  bright  green  eyes  and  brought  a  choke  into  her 
throat.  Wastwood  the  son  was  so  like  Wastwood  the  father 
— killed  at  Magersfontein  in  1900, — whom  Trixie,  for  no 
reason  apparently,  had  romantically  adored.  A  burly 
young  man,  pink  as  a  baby,  with  thick  fair  hair  growing 
down  within  two  inches  of  his  eyebrows,  small,  fierce  blue 
eyes,  and  a  huge  roaring  voice,  softened  down  now  to  a 
tender  bellow  as  he  answered  a  pale  girl's  eager  question 
with : 

"Well,  I  can't  say  exactly  when  we're  going  to  the  Front, 
but  I  hope  to  Christmas  it'll  be  soon!" 

Wastwood's  engagement  to  the  girl  had  been  announced 
only  the  week  previously  in  the  Society  Columns  of  the 
leading  dailies.  Now,  while  Wastwood's  younger  brother 
Jerry  anguished  in  the  throes  of  a  final  Exam,  at  Sandhurst, 
the  said  Jerry  being  set  upon  getting  a  Commission  in  time 
to  go  to  the  Front  with  one  of  the  First  Divisions — his  elder 
sat  on  a  Club  sofa  and  made  love  to  the  girl  Jerry  was 
subsequently  to  marry.  For  not  only  Wastwood's  title, 
but  his  vacant  Commission  as  a  Lieutenant  in  the  Dapple 
Greys  and  his  sweetheart  went  to  his  junior  after  Mons. 

There  was  a  lot  of  family  and  regimental  re-shuffling  and 
re-dealing,  you  will  remember,  after  Mons. 

The  leaven  of  the  Great  Awakening  was  working  in  the 
souls  of  these  worldly-minded,  ultra-modern  men  and 
women,  even  as  the  crowd  in  the  rooms  grew  denser,  as  the 
buzz  of  talk  became  almost  solid,  and  khaki  mingled  with 
the  brilliant  toilettes.  Hardly  a  man  but  wore  dead-leaf 
brown.  Wives  were  entertaining  their  husbands,  mothers 
were  lunching  their  sons,  that  day,  at  the  multitudinous 
little  tables  in  the  great  and  lesser  dining-rooms, — there  was 


394  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

a  revival  of  old  code-words,  an  interchange  of  almost  for- 
gotten pet-names,  a  resurrection  of  ancient  jokes,  when  the 
atmosphere  seemed  dangerously  charged  with  emotion. 
How  many  Last  Sacraments  of  renewed  love  were  eaten 
and  drunk  by  husbands  and  wives  who,  estranged  for  years, 
were  to  be  reunited  by  the  War,  and  parted  by  the  War  until 
the  Day  when  Wars  shall  be  no  more. 

That  a  tall  young  man  in  grey  tweed  with  a  crape  armlet 
should  sit  opposite  Patrine  that  day  at  Margot's  special 
table  was  one  of  the  thousand  miracles  already  wrought. 

Sherbrand  had  shelved  all  recollection  of  that  June 
adventure  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  when  a  flushed  young 
husband  in  immaculate  top-hat  and  frock-coat  had  thanked 
an  angry  young  man  in  waterproof  overalls  and  gabardine 
for  not  chopping  his  wife  into  kedgeree. 

Could  one  be  angry  any  more  when  this  little  human 
dragon-fly  was  what  Patrine  called  "a  frightful  pal"  of 
hers.  Thank  Heaven !  Patrine  had  known  nothing  of  the 
cousinship  when  she  had  answered  Sherbrand's  plain 
question,  "Will  you  marry  me?"  with  an  assent: 

"  Sooner  than  not ! " 

"Then— it  is  settled?" 

"Yes,  you  poor  dear!     If  you  think  me  worth  having!" 

Worth  having!  Sherbrand's  glorious  Patrine.  Whom  to 
be  near  was  heaven  on  earth.  Whom  to  obey  was  a  lover's 
luxury,  even  when  she  had  issued  the  mandate: 

"Now,  you  must  come  to  the  Club  and  lunch  with  me, 
and  meet  my  friends.     Do  be  decent  to  them!" 

Perhaps  you  can  see  Sherbrand  bowing  rather  stiffly  to 
Margot  and  accepting  with  the  briefest  hesitation  the 
smallest  of  offered  hands. 

"I  thought  it  must  be  the  same! — I  was  certain  there 
couldn't  be  two  Flying  Sherbrands.  Pat ! — Mr.  Sherbrand 
can't  deny  the  relationship,  though  he  disapproves  of 
Franky  and  me  most  fearfully.     You'll  have  to  teach  him, " 


The  Eve  of  Armageddon  395 

went  on  the  coaxing  little  voice,  "that  we're  lots  and  lots 
nicer  than  he  thinks  us!  For  we've  got  to  be  friends, "  said 
Kittums,  "if  you  and  my  dear  Pat  are  going  to  be  married! 
No  time  like  the  present!     Can't  we  begin  now?" 

What  a  vivid  little  face  it  was,  though  there  were  tired 
marks  like  faint  bruises  under  the  great  dark  eyes,  and  the 
rose-flush  in  the  cheeks  was  less  bright  than  it  had  seemed  in 
June.  He  released  the  tiny  jewelled  fingers,  and  found 
himself  presented  to  the  husband. 

"Frightfully  glad  to  meet  you — more  reasons  than  one!" 

Franky,  slim,  sleek-headed,  and  dapper  in  unblemished 
Regulation  tea-leaf,  held  out  his  hand,  saying  as  he  looked 
the  other  squarely  in  the  eyes: 

"If  I  had  known  your  Home  address,  I  should  like  to 
have  dropped  a  line  to  you,  when  I — when  I  saw  the  news- 
paper yesterday." 

"My  mother  lives  at  Bournemouth.  My  father  had 
been  an  invalid  for  years.  I  go  down  to-day  by  the  after- 
noon train." 

"Ah!     Please  remember  me  to  my — Aunt  Jeannette. " 

From  what  dusty  shelf  of  memories  had  Franky  reached 
down  the  name  of  his  uncle's  unknown  wife?  But  it 
sounded  pleasantly  to  Mrs.  Sherbrand's  son.  The  cloud 
upon  his  forehead  cleared  away,  and  his  cold  sea-blue  eyes 
began  to  thaw  into  kindness : 

"I'd  like  a  word  with  you  in  private.  Do  you  mind 
comin'  out  of  this  clackshop  into  the  vesttbulee? "  Franky 
went  on,  quoting  his  favourite  Jimmy  Greggson,  and  with  a 
word  to  Margot  and  a  glance  on  Sherbrand's  part  at  Pa- 
trine,  the  two  men  passed  through  the  swing-doors.  Here 
Franky  wheeled,  and  said  with  effort: 

"This  is  a  bit  subsequent!  but — if  there's  time  available 
and  the  date  of  my  uncle's  funeral  doesn't  happen  to  be 
fixed,  I  should  like  to  say — ' '  He  grew  furiously  red  and  be- 
gan to  stammer:  "My  father  .  .  .  myself  .  .  .  Dash!  how 
brutally  I  bungle !     But  my  uncle  has  a  right  to — to  lie  in  the 


396  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

family  vault  with  his  ancestors.  It's  at  Whins — the  Church 
is  in  the  Castle  grounds.  I  can  guarantee  that  my  father — 
every  facility — sympathy — proper  respect — "  He  broke 
down.     Sherbrand  answered,  now  the  cooler  of  the  two: 

"You  are  very  kind,  Lord  Norwater.  My  mother  has 
already  received  a  telegram  from  Lord  Mitchelborough 
conveying  a  message  to  the  same  effect.  " 

* '  I  engineered  that ! ' '  thought  Franky  complacently.  But 
he  was  fish-dumb.     Sherbrand  went  on: 

"She  would  thank  you,  as  I  do,  gratefully.  But  my 
father — would  have  preferred  to  be  buried  where  he  died!" 

"Good  egg!  And  now  there's  another  thing  to  get  off 
my  chest, "  said  Franky.  "You  know  you  stand  in  for  the 
Viscounty  when  I  succeed  my  father,  or  if  I  get  knocked 
out  in  this  scrap — supposing  I  should  kick  without  heirs! 
That  being  so,  suppose  you  bury  the  hatchet  and  lunch  with 
us?  Wouldn't  in  Paris — perhaps  you  will  now ?  The  War 
seems  to  rub  up  old  saws  like  new  somehow.  That  copy- 
book tag  about  Blood  bein'  thicker  than  water!  that's  one 
of  the  ones  I  mean.  In  case  my  wife  got  left — do  you 
tumble?" — the  ambiguous  term  was  quite  expressive — 
"I'd  like  to  think  that  you  were — would  be  kind  to  her!" 

"I  should  certainly — in  that  case — try  to  do  what  I 
could. "  A  certain  physical  and  mental  resemblance  showed 
between  these  two  long-legged,  lightly-built,  clean-made 
Sherbrands,  standing  together  talking  of  grave  matters, 
with  candour  and  simplicity  and  British  avoidance  of  senti- 
ment and  excess  of  words. 

"But," —  Sherbrand  found  himself  yielding  to  an  impulse 
of  confidence  in  the  owner  of  the  brown  eyes  that  were  some 
inches  below  his  own,  "this  War  is  my  chance!  I'm  a 
certified  pilot-aviator  and  constructor  and  engineer.  Per- 
haps there'll  be  a  chink  in  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  for  me — 
and  many  another  fellow  like  me — before  long — I  hope,  not 
very  long!  For  my  father's  sake  as  much  as  for  my  own, 
I'm  bound  to  make  good — you  understand?" 


The  Eve  of  Armageddon  397 

The  brown  eyes  understood.  His  kindred  blood  warmed 
to  the  look  in  them. 

"He  knew — my  father  knew  that  he  had  failed  in  life 
through  his  own  fault.  He  did  not  resent  his  brother's  atti- 
tude. He  bore  the  consequences  more  or  less  patiently,  and 
when  he  died  he  left  the  cleansing  of  his  name  to  me.  Not 
that  he  was  as  badly  to  blame  as  people  thought.  He  was 
born  without  sufficient  of  the  quality  called — objectivity. 
It's  the  power  that  keeps  a  man  slogging,  slogging  in  one 
groove  without  getting  mechanical  or  stupid,  as  long  as  he 
attain  his  ends  or  can  serve  his  country  by  keeping  on.  It's 
indispensable !'' — he  emphasised  the  word,  his  strong  blue- 
grey  eyes  full  on  Franky's — "as  indispensable  as  lymph  in 
your  inner  ear-tubes.  Without  it  you  can't  keep  a  level 
balance — whether  you  stand,  or  walk,  or  fly!" 

"Miss  Saxham — knows,  I  suppose?" 

A  flush  crept  up  through  Sherbrand's  tanning: 

"I  have  told  her.  It  wasn't  pleasant.  But  she — likes 
me  enough  to  overlook  it.  She — seems  to  think  I  should 
never  fail  in  that  way !  I  hope  to  God  I  never  shall ! "  The 
old  boyish  terror  of  inherited  weakness  cropped  up  in  the 
tone  of  the  man  grown.  "It  would  be  horrible  to  suspect 
the  bacillus  of  slackness  lurking  in  my  blood!  If  there  is — 
the  sooner  I  get  scrapped,  the  better  for  her  and  for  me!" 

"Well,  you've  chosen  the — kind  of  career  that  is  going  to 
use  up  a  good  many  men  pretty  quickly."  Franky  was 
warming  more  and  more  to  this  big  blond,  candid  cousin. 
"Not  that  I  think  there's  much  of  the  slacker  about  you. 
Few  chaps  more  fit  and  nervy — that  is,  going  by  looks,  you 
know!  But  if  the  Kaiser's  Flying  Men  can  shoot  on  the 
wing  as  well  as  they  brag  they  can" — his  brown  eyes  were 
watchful  for  a  change  in  the  other's  face — "then " 

"Then  I  tumble  out  of  my  sky,  a  dead  bird!"  said  Sher- 
brand,  squaring  his  broad  shoulders,  "and  someone  luckier 
fills  my  place ! ' ' 

"Thumbs  up!     Ten  to  one  you'd  come  down  with  a 


398  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

broken  wing  or  so."  There  was  something  that  touched 
Franky's  latent  quality  of  imagination  in  the  fellow's  queer 
way  of  saying  "my  sky. "  "This  cousin  of  mine  is  a  hand- 
some fellow,  "  he  said  to  himself,  "and  a  plucky  one.  And 
— by  the  Great  Brass  Hat ! — now  I  come  to  think  of  it — the 
livin'  image  of  old  Sir  Roger  Sherbrand — his  and  my  great- 
grandfather— goin'  by  the  portrait  in  the  gallery  at  Whins. " 

"So  you're  firm  on  joinin'  the  Fljnng  Corps  ..."  he 
went  on,  feeling  for  the  moustache  which  had  been 
reduced  to  Regulation  toothbrush  size.  "Good  egg  You! 
Wish  you  all  the  sporting  chances " 

"And  better  luck,"  said  Sherbrand  drily,  "with  Bird  of 
War  No.  II.  than  I  had  with  No.  I.!" 

"You're  building  a  new  'plane?"  The  brown  eyes  were 
alight  with  interest. 

"Rather !     Come  and  have  a  look  at  her  one  day. " 

"Like  a  shot,  if  only  I'd  time!  Did  she  tot  to  a  hatful 
of  money?" 

"Something  under  £700.  £500  of  that  goes  for  the  new 
'Gnome'  engine.  You  see  that  German — "  Sherbrand 
broke  off. 

"I  remember!  Pretty  rough  on  you,  that  North  Sea 
crossin'  business.  Must  have  been  an  awful  loss.  Look 
here!"  Franky  reddened  again  and  began  to  flounder. 
"Could  I— couldn't  I— help  with  the  boodle?  Got  £700 
lying  by  idle.  Frightfully  glad  if  you'd  let  me  chip  in! — 
just  in  a  cousinly  sort  o'  way!" 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Lord  Norwater." 

Confound  the  fellow!  how  he  froze  at  the  least  hint  of 
patronage.     He  went  on,  holding  his  head  high: 

"You  are  very  kind,  but  I  am  not  poor,  unless  as  poverty 
is  understood  by  people  of  your  world.  Apart  from  what 
my  profession  brings  me  I  have  something  in  the  way  of 
income.  My  mother's  brother  left  me  a  sum  of  money 
that  brings  in  yearly  over  £200. "  He  went  on  as  Franky 
regarded  with  unaffected  interest  the  man  who  wasn't  poor 


The  Eve  of  Armageddon  399 

on  two  hundred  per  annum:  "The  principal — I  suppose  it 
tots  up  to  £6,000 — I  shall  naturally  settle  on  my  wife. " 

He  warmed  and  brightened  with  the  utterance  of  the 
word.  His  cold  eyes  grew  soft  and  his  brows  smoothed 
pleasantly.  He  said  with  a  glowing  pride,  and  a  kind  of 
brave  shyness  that  a  woman  who  loved  him  would  have 
adored : 

"  I  have  said  nothing  yet  to  Miss  Saxham  about  my  hopes 
of  a  Commission — I  suppose  for  fear  of  not  pulling  the  thing 
off.  But  the  moment  it  comes  along  I  shall  persuade  her  to 
marry  me.  We'll  be  man  and  wife  before  I  fly  for  the 
Front." 

As  cocky  as  though  he  had  landed  the  biggest  catch  in  the 
matrimonial  waters,  thought  Franky,  instead  of  that  great, 
slangy,  galumphing  young  woman  without  a  halfpenny  at 
her  back.  But  he  did  the  amiable,  in  a  way  characteristic 
of  Franky,  ushering  the  guest  back  to  the  luncheon-room, 
introducing  "my  cousin"  to  people  worth  knowing,  doing 
the  honours  with  a  pleasant  cordiality  that  won  upon  Sher- 
brand  more  and  more. 

Sherbrand  took  leave  directly  after  lunch,  saying  that  he 
had  to  catch  the  afternoon  express  for  Bournemouth.  He 
had  left  his  bag  and  suit-case  in  the  hall-porter's  care. 
Would  Patrine? — Patrine  read  the  entreaty  in  the  hiatus 
and  yielded  to  it,  saying  Yes,  she  would  drive  with  him, 
and  see  him  off  from  Waterloo.  ♦ 

"It's  lovely  of  you!"  Sherbrand  said  to  her  gratefully  as 
they  rose.  She  gave  him  her  cordial  smile  and  a  soft  glance 
from  the  long  eyes.  They  took  leave  of  their  hosts  and 
passed  out  together,  heads  slewing  as  the  tall  young  figures 
went  by. 

Once  in  a  taxi,  spinning  down  Short  Street,  Sherbrand 
possessed  himself  of  the  hand  he  coveted.  Its  warm 
strong,  answering  clasp  thrilled  him  to  speechlessness.  He 
looked  at  the  long  white  fingers  intertwined  with  his  own, 
and  asked  himself  whether  he  were  deserving  of  a  happiness 


400  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

too  great  to  be  credited.  When  her  shoulder  touched  his, 
its  warm  creamy  whiteness  gleaming  through  the  dead-white 
of  her  thin  sleeve,  his  heart  drummed  until  it  seemed  as 
though  she  could  not  but  hear  it.  But  his  was  not  the 
only  heart  that  beat.   .  .  . 

"Thank  you."  It  was  her  rich  warm  voice  speaking 
close  by  his  ear.  "Thank  you  for  being  so  nice  to  my 
Kittums!  She  is  the  truest  little  soul  going.  We  have 
been  chums  ever  since  I  joined  the  Club.  Never  quarrelled 
once — until  she  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  Franky " 

"And  now  you're  going  to  marry  Franky's  first  cousin." 
Sherbrand  laughed  rather  breathlessly.  "'Marry'  .  .  . 
'Marriage.'  Two  splendid  words  with  meanings  and  mean- 
ings beyond  meanings  packed  into  them.  Isn't  it  wonder- 
ful? .  .  ."  He  gripped  the  warm  white  hand  in  his  strong 
brown  one.     "Pat,  your  pulses  are  playing  a  tune!" 

"  So  are  yours, "  she  answered  in  a  low  tone. 

"What  is  it?"  He  bent  his  head  and  set  his  lips  in  a 
swift  caress  to  the  back  of  the  white  hand.  Then  he  turned 
it  gently  over  and  looked  earnestly  at  the  blue  wrist- veins. 
They  were  full  and  throbbing  tumultuously.  Her  blood 
was  answering  to  the  call  of  his.  He  set  a  second  swift  kiss 
upon  them  and  his  voice  was  unsteady  as  he  said: 

"I  know  the  name  of  the  tune,  my  wonder.  Patrine! 
Love! — it's  the  Wedding  March!" 

"Whose?  Grieg's,  or  Wagner's  in  Lohengrin,  or  Hay- 
dn's?" 

"Neither  Wagner's  nor  Haydn's  nor  Grieg's.  Yours  and 
mine !  I  told  Lord  Norwater  to-day  that  I  meant  to  make 
sure  of  you  before  I  fly  for  the  Front." 

"You're  going  to  the  Front?  Oh! — why?"  Herlongeyes 
looked  at  him  with  sharp  terror  in  them.     He  answered: 

"When  the  Powers  that  be  offer  me  a  Commission  in  the 
Royal  Flying  Corps." 

"  I  see.  "  She  breathed  freely.  "And  so — we  are  not  to 
be  married  until  then?" 


The  Eve  of  Armageddon  401 


"Would  you — to-morrow,  if  I- 


<( ' 


'You  know  I  would!  "  Her  voice  broke  over  him  in  a 
wave  of  tenderness.  "You've  made  me  love  you — so 
dreadfully,  Alan.  Now  if  the  little  tin  gods  hear  us — the 
spiteful  little  gods  who  spoil  people's  lives — something  will 
happen  to  part  us,  soon. " 

His  arm  went  round  her  and  gathered  her  against  him. 
He  said  with  a  great  thrill  of  triumph: 

"If  the  Great  God  is  for  us  we  can  defy  the  little  tin 
devils !  It  was  He  who  made  us  for  each  other,  brought  us 
together — will  bring  us  closer  still!" 

He  added,  as  a  handsome  boy  of  nineteen  or  twenty, 
dressed  at  the  zenith  of  the  fashion,  and  already  showing  the 
worn  lines  of  habitual  dissipation,  flashed  by  driven  in  a 
silver-grey  Lanchester,  with  a  notorious  Cyprian  enthroned 
at  his  side: 

"How  can  I  thank  Him  enough  for  what  He  has  done  for 
me?  How  many  temptations'  He  has  helped  me  resist,  that 
I  might  come  to  you  clean  to-day!" 

"Were  any  of  the  temptations  like  Mrs.  Mallison?"  She 
had  freed  her  hand  from  his,  and  now  leaned  forwards,  hid- 
ing her  clouded  face  from  Sherbrand  under  the  pretext  of 
following  the  grey  car  with  her  eyes.  "That  was  little 
Wyvenhoe  with  her.  .  .  .  How  young  he  is!  And  how 
old  she  must  be!  Why,  I've  seen  her  portrait  in  a  Book  of 
Beauty  dated  forty  years  back — with  a  chignon  and  water- 
fall. They  called  her  the  Marble  Marvel  in  those  days, 
didn't  they?  Before  she  pitched  her  cap  over  the  windmill, 
and  made  hay  of  the  Prunes  and  Prisms.  Now  she  acts  in 
Music  Hall  sketches — has  a  voice  like  a  raven's,  paints  a 
quarter-of-an-inch  thick,  and  exploits  Eton  boys.  Is  any- 
thing the  matter?" 

Sherbrand  had  suddenly  started  and  pulled  his  watch  out. 
Now  he  rapped  on  the  glass  at  the  back  of  the  chauffeur, 
leaned  out  of  the  window  and  spoke  to  the  man,  and  re- 
sumed his  seat,  answering: 
26 


402 


That  Which  Hath  Wings 


"The  matter  is  that  I  had  forgotten  an  important 
appointment.  I  can  manage  to  keep  it  by  the  skin  of  my 
eyelids  by  taking  the  three  o'clock  train  to  Bournemouth 
instead  of  the  two-thirty  Express.  You  won't  mind  ?  You'll 
come  with  me  and  wait  for  me?" 

"  Not  a  little  bit !  .  .  .  "  she  answered  to  the  one  question 
and  to  the  other:  "Of  course  I  will!" 


CHAPTER  LI 


THE    INWARD    VOICE 


The  taxi,  arrested  and  reversed  on  its  way  to  Piccadilly 
Circus,  was  soon  speeding  Westv/ards.  It  whirred  up  Berke- 
ley Street,  traversed  Berkeley  Square,  and  turned  into  a 
short  street  ending  in  railings,  enclosing  grass  wonderfully 
green  for  August,  clipped  bushes  of  evergreens,  and  some 
autumn-foliaged  planes. 

"We'll  keep  the  man.  I'll  take  his  number.  He'll  look 
after  my  kit  for  me.     Let  me  help  you  out,  dear!" 

He  opened  a  gate  in  the  railings  and  let  her  through.  A 
large  double  house,  with  many  windows,  severely  screened 
with  brown  curtains  and  wire  blinds,  loomed  behind  them, 
commanding  the  oblong  patch  of  London  green.  The  Mod- 
ern Gothic  porch  of  a  lofty  building  of  smoke-darkened 
freestone  rose  up  before  them.  Patrine  said  under  her 
breath,  realising  the  ecclesiastical  character  of  the 
edifice : 

"Great  Scott!     It's  a  church!" 

But  Sherbrand,  who  had  stayed  to  shut  the  gate  in  the 
raihngs  did  not  hear  the  tabooed  expletive.  He  caught  her 
up  and  turned  the  massive  iron  handle  of  the  porch-door 
which  was  braced  by  bands  of  iron  with  trefoil  heads,  and 
studded  with  heavy  nails.  They  went  down  two  shallow 
steps  into  an  oblong,  vaulted  chamber,  very  cool  and  dark 
and  fragrant,  tesselated  with  squares  of  black  and  white 
stone.  Slabs  of  black  marble  lined  the  walls  to  the  height 
of  a  tall  man.  An  inscription  in  Early  English  lettering, 
cut  into  the  black  background  and  gilded,  caught  Pa- 
trine's  eye  in  passing.  She  read  beneath  the  symbol  of  the 
Cross : 

403 


404  That  Which   Hath  Wings 


t 


"So&alfts  of  tbe  JBlcsseD  Sacrament" 

Under  were  lists  of  names,  all  male,  ranged  alphabetically. 
Her  quick  eye  dropped  to  the  initial  S.  and  found  Sherbrand 
there.  But  when  she  looked  for  her  companion,  he  was 
waiting  hat  in  hand,  at  a  door  some  distance  beyond  them. 

"You  will  come  in  and  wait  for  me? "  he  whispered  as  she 
came  towards  him. 

' '  Why  not  ?  As  well  here  as  anywhere ! "  He  opened  the 
door  and  she  passed  in. 

To  Patrine's  left  hand,  close  to  the  door  by  whicn  they 
had  entered,  was  a  small  unpretending  altar  supporting  the 
tinted  image  of  an  emaciated,  bearded  monk  in  a  black  robe 
girdled  with  a  white  cord.  A  clustered  pillar  of  red  and 
white  marble  supported  a  shallow  basin  containing  a  little 
water.  Patrine  shrugged  as  Sherbrand  dipped  his  fingers 
and  made  upon  brow  and  breast  the  sacred  Sign.  Then  he 
seemed  to  hesitate — dipped  again  and  held  the  wetted  finger 
tips  towards  her,  evidently  courting  her  touch.  She  shook 
her  head  hastily.  Her  eyes  swept  purposely  past  his, 
scanning  the  vast  interior.  They  were  standing  in  the 
shorter  southern  transept  of  what  was  some  church. 

The  vast  nave  was  dark  and  cool,  full  of  silence  and 
shadow  and  the  perfimie  of  fiow.ers  and  incense,  mingled 
with  a  fragrance  far  subtler  than  these.  Pillars  of  richest 
Modern  Gothic  design  supported  the  roof,  whose  forest  of 
rich  dark  timbers  showed  little  adornment,  except  at  the 
Sanctuary  end.  Here  cofEering,  diapering,  and  gilding  made 
for  splendour;  rich  marble  cased  the  pillars  and  floored  the 
stately  choir  with  its  rows  of  stalls,  wrought  in  dark  wood, 
elaborately  carved.  The  north  transept  housed  the  organ,  a 
towering  instrument  of  many  pipes.  The  scarlet  cushion 
on  the  vacant  organ-bench,  the  book  of  chants  left  upon  the 


The  Inward  Voice  405 

rack,  the  black  and  yellow-white  of  the  well-used  keys,  the 
numbered  heads  of  the  stops,  showed  through  the  lattice- 
work of  a  high  wrought-iron  screen,  wonderfully  painted  and 
gilt.  Between  Patrine  and  the  nave  was  a  pulpit  of  red  and 
white  marble  like  the  pillars,  with  a  carved  sounding-board 
of  obviously  ancient  work.  Rows  of  pews  flanked  the  wide 
central  aisle  and  the  two  smaller,  and  on  the  right  of  a  lofty 
oaken  screen  that  masked  the  west  door,  with  the  mellow 
light  of  a  great  rose-window  falling  on  it,  towered  a  huge 
Crucifix  in  black  marble,  upholding  a  white  tortured  Figure 
whose  drooping  thorn-crowned  Head,  like  His  hands  and 
feet  and  side,  dripped  with  crimson.  .  .  .  Patrine  winced 
at  the  sight,  and  turned  hastily  away. 

Now  she  was  looking  over  the  head  of  Sherbrand,  who 
knelt  before  her  upright  and  motionless, — at  the  High  Altar, 
backed  with  a  noble  triptych,  its  three  panels  displaying 
the  Annunciation,  the  Visitation,  and  the  Nativit}^  A  silver 
lamp  depending  by  chains  from  the  centre  of  the  Sanctuary 
roof  burned  with  a  small  steady  flame  before  the  Tabernacle 
— standing  between  tall  tapers  burning  in  gleaming  candle- 
sticks, and  vases  of  huge  white  golden-anthered  August 
lilies — hiding  behind  its  broidered  curtains  and  golden  doors, 
the  Ineffable  IMystery. 

"Come!"  Sherbrand's  whisper  said,  close  at  her  ear  as  he 
rose  up.  She  turned  and  followed  him  down  a  side-aisle. 
"Sit  here!"  he  signed  to  her,  pointing  to  a  narrow  bench. 
He  waited  until  she  was  seated,  laid  his  hat  and  stick  beside 
her,  gave  her  a  grave  smile,  bent  his  knees  once  more,  look- 
ing towards  the  High  Altar  and  moved  noiselessly  away. 

Turning  her  head  to  follow  him  with  her  eyes,  Patrine  saw 
that  the  large  dark  church  was  not  as  empty  as  she  had 
supposed.  Kneeling  or  seated  figures  of  men  and  women 
were  scattered  here  and  there  amongst  the  wilderness  of 
empty  pews.  The  serried  rows  of  rush-bottomed  kneeling- 
chairs  in  either  side-aisle  showed  aggregations  of  people,  ten 
or  a  dozen  together,  chiefly  in  the  neighbourhood  of  certain 


4o6  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

narrow  wooden  doors  appertaining  to  small  structures  that 
might  be  little  chapels  or  vestries,  set  between  groups  of 
pillars  in  regular  sequence  down  the  length  of  the  side-walls. 
Still  following  Sherbrand's  figure  with  her  eyes  she  saw 
him  knock  at  one  of  the  doors,  wait  as  though  for  an  answer, 
and  enter.  As  the  door  swung  towards  her,  she  saw  that  it 
bore  a  name  in  gilt  letters  within  an  oval  on  the  upper 
panel.  Each  of  the  doors,  a  questing  glance  satisfied  her, 
bore  a  name. 

Of  course  the  little  wooden  chapels  were  confessionals. 
Was  Confession  the  important  business  that  necessitated 
Sherbrand's  losing  a  train  and  foregoing  the  company  of 
Patrine  to  the  station,  a  favour  so  eagerly  sought  and  so 
ardently  received?  Her  red  lips  curled  a  little  at  the  corners 
as  she  turned  her  face  back  towards  the  High  Altar,  rising 
within  the  low  barrier  of  the  red  and  white  marble  Com- 
munion-rail. So  remote  and  pure  and  set  apart  with  its 
tall,  shining  lights  and  gleaming  vases  of  pure  white  lilies,  its 
snow-white  silk  frontal  embroidered  with  a  golden  ray- 
surrounded  Chalice,  its  fair  white  linen  Altar-cloth,  with  a 
running  border  of  Old  English  lettering  in  dark  rusty  red: 

"1bc  batb  borne  our  IFnfirmities  anD  Carried  our 

Sorrows.    1be  was  XCioun&eJ)  for  our  Uniquittcs. 

Ibe  was  JSrufseD  for  our  sins." 

The  words  seemed. to  have  a  physical  as  well  as  mental 
force  and  impressiveness.  It  was  as  though  they  swept  from 
the  high  white  Table  through  the  fragrant,  wax-lit  stillness 
of  the  Sanctuary,  winnowing  the  still,  spicy  air  of  the  dark 
nave  and  the  lighter  side-aisles  as  with  wide,  powerful,  un- 
seen wings.  And  despite  the  presence  of  nearly  a  hundred 
people  scattered  about  the  great  building,  the  stillness  was 
extraordinary.     It  got  on  the  nerves. 

Almost  awfully  upon  the  nerves.  For  a  long  way  be- 
hind her,  where  the  shadowy  dusk  brooded  thickest,  and 
the  white  tortured  Figure  of  the  Crucified  hung  drooping 


The  Inward  Voice  407 

from  the  great  Cross  of  black  marble  against  the  background 
of  the  towering  oak  screen,  it  was  as  though  the  first  great 
drops  of  a  thunder-shower  were  falhng,  pat,  pat,  pat!  upon 
the  pavement  below. 

Merely  a  trick  of  imagination — and  yet  it  tortured.  One 
knew  by  sensations  like  these  that  one  had  been  frightfully 
overstrained  of  late.  One  had  done  lots  of  things  one 
regretted — several  things  one  disliked  to  think  of;  one  thing 
that  made  one  hate  oneself  sometimes  with  a  very  fury  of 
intensity,  when  one  wasn't  too  busy  hating  Mm.  But  since 
he  was  drowned,  one  had  felt  it  scarcely  cricket  to  go  on 
expending  fierce  resentment  and  savage  disgust  and  acute 
loathing  in  that  direction.  One  heaped  it  on  the  living  of 
the  two  gross,  sensual  offenders.  Oh  God !  when  Sherbrand 
had  said  in  that  tone  of  triumph: 

"J  come  to  you  clean !" 

How  inexpressibly  one  had  abominated  oneself.  How 
one  had  shrunk  against  the  side  of  the  taxicab,  pretending 
to  look  after  wretched  little  decadent  Wyvenhoe  and  the 
unquenchable  Mrs.  Mallison — feigning  sudden  absorption 
in  the  Piccadilly  shop-windows,  to  escape  those  clear  un- 
doubting  eyes  that  pierced  one  to  the  very  soul.  To  be 
thought  good  when  one  was  wicked,  pure  when  one  was  the 
other  thing ;  believed  candid  when  one  was  a  living  lie.  Ah ! 
— that  not  only  pierced  but  scorched. 

If  anybody,  a  month  or  so  back,  had  asked  Patrine: 
"Are  you  a  Christian^"  she  would  have  retorted:  "What 
are  you  playing  at?  Of  course  I  am — I  suppose!"  Of  late 
that  conjectural  Being  she  had  called  God  had  receded, 
faded,  grown  dimmer,  and  vanished.  But  here  in  the  still- 
ness, looking  towards  the  Altar,  she  was  conscious  as 
those  candle-flames  went  up  like  prayers  from  faithful  souls, 
that  Good  and  Evil  were  living  warring  Forces.  You  chose 
White  or  Black  deliberately,  and  when  Death  came — it 
was  anything  but  the  end. 


408  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

Her  hair  stiffened  slightly  on  her  scalp  and  a  light  shud- 
der thrilled  through  her.  She  felt  with  a  growing  awe,  and 
sense  of  dreadful  certainty,  that  Someone  was  looking  at  her. 
And  to  relieve  the  insupportable  tension  she  stretched  out 
her  hand,  and  took  a  squat,  thick  little  book  from  the  shelf 
below  the  seat  in  front  of  her.  It  was  a  copy  of  the  Douai 
translation  from  the  Latin  Vulgate  of  the  Bible,  and  there 
was  a  purple  marker  where  she  opened  it,  in  the  middle  of 
the  Book  of  Job. 

''Power  and  terror  are  with  Him.  ..." 

That  was  the  first  line  that  caught  her  eye.  A  little  lower 
on  the  page  came : 

"  Was  it  not  Him  that  made  life  ?  Hell  is  naked  before  Him 
and  there  is  no  covering  for  destruction.  .  .  .  He  stretched  out 
the  North  over  the  empty  place,  and  hangeth  the  earth  upon 
nothing. 

"He  hath  set  bounds  about  the  waters,  till  light  and  dark- 
ness come  to  an  end.  .  .  . 

"  The  pillars  of  heaven  tremble  and  dread  at  His  beck.  By 
His  power  the  seas  are  suddenly  gathered  together,  and  His 
Wisdom  hath  struck  the  proud  one. 

"His  Spirit  hath  adorned  the  heavens  .  .  .  and  seeing  we 
have  heard  scarce  a  little  drop  of  His  Word,  who  shall  be  able  to 
withstand  the  thunder  of  His  greatness?" 

It  was  like  a  Voice  speaking — a  Voice  of  inconceivable 
magnitude.  It  made  one  go  cold,  asking  oneself  the  ques- 
tion: What  if  sin  were  an  insult  to  Him?  A  scrap  of  filth 
flung  in  the  Face  of  One  who  created  the  atom,  the  pro- 
toplasm, the  cell,  and  the  bacillus,  and  built  from  these  in 
His  own  Image,  Man. 

Sitting  in  the  stilly  duskiness  the  woman  He  had  made 
shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to  envisage  Him.  He  was  not  the 
God  of  the  Curate's  Confirmation-class,  nor  the  God  the 
Anglican  Vicar  of  the  West  End  Church  preached  about,  but 
a  Being  the  hem  of  whose  garment  extends  beyond  the 


The  Inward  Voice  409 

confines  of  Space,  and  in  whose  lap  lies  Eternity.  Infinite 
Goodness,  infinite  Love,  infinite  Purity,  infinite  Beauty, 
He  could  stoop  to  care  for  the  little  beings  of  His  Workman- 
ship so  much,  that  for  them  He  did  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice 
Himself  in  the  Person  of  His  Only  Son.  Did  not  love  such 
as  this  make  wilful  sin  an  insult  to  Him  in  that  Son's  Person  ? 
Wasn't  it — pretty  rough  on  Our  Saviour — to  have  poured 
out  His  Blood  upon  the  Cross  of  Calvary  as  an  atonement 
for  the  sins  of  men  like  dead  von  Herrnung,  and  women  like 
Patrine  Saxham,  and  know  them  still  so  beastly,  so  prurient, 
so  base,  so  vile?  ...  It  began  to  dawn  upon  Patrine,  still 
possessed  by  that  strange  hallucination  of  the  Blood  that 
dripped  heavily  from  the  tortured  Body  on  the  great  black 
Cross  behind  her,  how  it  might  be  that  evil  wilfully  com- 
mitted, opened  its  Wounds  afresh.  Drove  the  thorns 
anew  into  the  drooping  Head  of  the  Crucified,  pierced 
once  more  the  Heart,  that  inexhaustible  fountain  of 
love.  .  .  . 

"0!  all  you  that  pass  by  .  .  .  attend  and  see  if  there  be 
any  sorrow  like  unto  My  Sorrow. " 

The  words  came  cropping  up  through  layers  of  sentences 
heard  and  forgotten,  clearly  as  though  a  voice  had  spoken 
them  at  her  side. 

This  afternoon  the  headlines  of  papers  had  shrieked  of 
horrors.  You  remember  that  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning  two  German  Army  Corps  had  poured  into  Belgium 
by  the  eleven  strategic  railways  that  provided  for  The  Day, 
The  vast  grey-green  flood  of  marching  men,  the  huge 
python-like  columns  of  machine-guns,  the  splendidly-horsed 
batteries  of  field  artillery,  the  Brobdingnagian  siege  howitz- 
ers thundering  behind  their  traction-engines,  the  miles  of 
motor- and  "horse-drawn  transport-waggons,  carts,  and  lor- 
ries, blotted  out  the  familiar  features  of  the  landscape,  as, 
preceded  by  massed  brigades  of  cavalry,  with  squadrons  of 
Field  Flying  Service  aeroplanes  reconnoitring  three  thou- 


410  That  Which    Hath  Wings 

sand  feet  overhead,  the  hosts  of  Germany  rolled  down 
towards  the  banks  of  the  Meuse. 

Directh^  in  line  of  them  rose  the  fortified  City  of  Liige, 
termed  "the  Birmingham  of  Belgium, "  holding  in  the  sub- 
urb of  Seraign,  five  miles  distant  from  the  city,  the  huge 
Cockerill  machine-plant  and  foundry,  one  of  the  largest 
ironworks  in  the  world.  They  had  stayed  three  hours  at 
the  frontier  station  of  Vis6,  a  Belgium  Custom  House  town 
of  less  than  4,000  inhabitants,  where  a  few  squadrons  of 
Belgian  Cavalry  and  the  Belgian  12th  Line  Regiment,  aided 
by  some  heroic  peasants,  farmers,  and  townspeople  had  risen 
up  with  desperate  gallantry  to  oppose  their  inevitable 
advance. 

They  had  written  the  sign-manual  of  the  Hun  upon  the 
ashes  of  Vise  in  the  blood  of  its  massacred  inhabitants. 
Frightfulness,  the  many-headed  hydra,  was  uncaged  and  let 
loose  ere  they  rolled  on  to  Liege  peeved  by  their  three  hours' 
intolerable  delay.  While  I  who  write  and  you  who  read 
far  from  the  sound  of  fusillades,  or  the  crash  of  shells  or 
the  yells  of  peasants  dying  amongst  the  flames  of  burning 
houses,  learned  of  these  deeds  from  the  shrilly  clamorous 
headlines,  and  asked  one  another  with  raised  eyebrows, 
in  incredulous  voices:  "Can  these  hideous  things  possibly 
have  been  done  ?" 

Patrine  had  no  doubt  that  they  had  been  done! — were 
being  done  even  while  she  sat  waiting  in  Sherbrand's  church 
for  Sherbrand.  Did  she  not  know  von  Herrnung?  Were 
not  his  fellow-officers  and  the  soldiers  he  and  they  com- 
manded, lustful,  brutal,  cruel,  rapacious,  arrogant,  and  piti- 
less even  as  he?  He  was  a  Type — not  the  isolated  example 
of  a  new  species.  It  would  not  be  easily  stamped  out;  its 
dominating  characteristics  would  write  themselves  upon  a 
conquered  race.  Those  outraged  wives,  those  violated 
daughters  of  Belgium  would  live  to  see  it  reproduced  in  the 
living  fruit  of  their  humiliation.  What  honest  man  could 
bear  to  stoop  over  his  wife's  bedside  and  meet  the  eyes  of 


The  Inward  Voice  411 

the  Enemy  looking  at  him — from  the  face  of  a  new-born 
child! 

A  rigor  of  horror  seized  upon  her  body  and  shook  it.  Her 
jaw  dropped,  her  eyes  closed  as  though  they  shrank  and 
withered  under  their  contracting  lids.  She  slid  from  her 
seat  and  fell  upon  her  knees  helplessly.  Her  head  sank 
forwards  upon  the  hands  that  rose  instinctively  to  hide  her 
face.  In  the  same  instant  Sherbrand's  low  voice  speaking 
behind  her  turned  the  heart  in  her  bosom  to  ice. 

"Dearest — I  am  ready,  that  is  if  you  are?  My  keeping 
you  was  unavoidable.  I  am  going  to  Communion  with  my 
mother,  before  the  Funeral  Mass  to-morrow,  and  I  wanted 
to  make  my  Confession  first.     Has  the  time  seemed  long?" 

"Not  long.     Shall  we  go  now?" 

He  bent  the  knee  to  the  High  Altar  and  moved  with  Pa- 
trine  down  the  nave  towards  an  altar  dedicated  to  the  Virgin 
Mother,  that  was  on  the  south  side  of  the  church  near  the 
great  west  door.  Wax  tapers  of  several  sizes  burned  in  a 
brass  stand  beside  the  tiny  altar-rail.  Sherbrand  lighted 
three  tapers  and  placed  them,  felt  in  his  waistcoat-pocket 
for  a  bit  of  silver  and  balanced  it  on  the  slotted  top  of  the 
money-box  too  gorged  with  pennies  to  admit  of  the  slender 
sixpenny  bit.  Then  with  a  beautiful,  devotional  simplicity 
he  knelt  upon  the  narrow  blue  golden-starred  cushion  for  a 
moment,  looking  up  at  the  gracious  veiled  head  that  bent 
above. 

But  for  the  modernity  of  the  tweed  clothes,  the  pose  of 
the  athletic,  lightly-built  body  would,  with  the  mellowed 
light  from  the  great  rose  window  falling  on  the  keen 
bronzed  face  and  thick  fair  hair,  have  suggested  a  knight  at 
prayer.  In  a  moment  he  rose.  They  returned  as  they  had 
come,  passed  through  the  chapter-house  of  the  Sodality, 
and  issued  through  the  door  into  the  garden.  She  said, 
as  he  triumphantly  possessed  himself  of  the  dear  white 
hand: 

"Tell  me,  when  you  lighted  and  placed  those  three  can- 


412  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

r 

dies  and  knelt  down — what  did  you  intend — what  was  it 
for?  A  practical  insurance  against  a  railway-acci- 
dent?" 

The  dull,  ill-timed  gibe  was  no  sooner  uttered  than  she 
sickened  with  self-contempt.  For  Sherbrand  answered 
with  direct  simplicity: 

"  Well,  no !  Call  my  tnree  candles  a  reminder  that  I  have 
asked  Our  Lady's  help  and  protection  and  guidance  for 
three  dear  people.  My  father,  my  mother,  and  my  wife 
that  is  to  be.  For  myself  I  asked  that  I  might  never  dis- 
appoint you.  You  don't  know  how  I  shall  try  to  live  up  to 
your  belief  in  me!" 

"You  dear  boy!"  Touched  to  the  quick  response  of 
tears  she  could  barely  falter:  "You're  a  million  times  too 
good  for  me,  if  only  you  knew!" 

"I  know  this — that  the  wide  world  doesn't  hold  another 
woman  like  my  woman!  Why,  Pat,  the  very  sound  of  your 
voice  lashes  all  the  blood  in  me  into  big  red  roaring  waves  of 
love." 

"  'Big  red  roaring  waves.'     Oh,  Alan!" 

She  laughed,  driving  back  the  hot  salt  tears  that  stung 
her  eyelids.  The  taxi  was  waiting  at  the  corner  of  Blount 
Street,  patiently  ticking  out  twopence.  Sherbrand  whistled 
and  it  approached  them.  But  this  time  Patrine  did 
not  enter.  She  could  not  now  drive  to  Waterloo. 
It  was  much,  much  too  late.  She  refused  even  to 
be  dropped  anywhere.  She  infinitely  preferred  walk- 
ing. It  was  quite  a  pleasant  stroll  from  there  to  Harley 
Street. 

So  they  wrung  hands  and  looked  in  each  other's  eyes  and 
parted.  When  the  taxi  vanished  round  the  corner  of  Blount 
Street,  the  tall,  gallantly-borne  figure  in  the  golden-braided 
hat  and  pale  rose  gown  began  to  walk  swiftly  towards 
Grosvenor  Square.  Suddenly  it  paused,  wheeled,  and  re- 
turned upon  its  paces,  passed  through  the  gate  in  the  rail- 
ings and  disappeared  into  the  church. 


The  Inward  Voice  413 

In  bed  that  night  in  the  chintz-hung  room  at  Harley 
Street,  Patrine,  recalling  the  experience  that  had  followed 
the  yielding  to  that  irresistible  prompting,  wondered  if  it 
had  actually  taken  place,  or  were  woven  of  the  tissue  of 
dreams. 

Kneeling  upon  a  bast  matting-covered  hassock  behind  the 
door  of  the  narrow  little  wooden  cell  into  which  she  had 
slipped  as  a  tall,  grey-haired  officer  in  Service  khaki  passed 
out, — she  had  rested  her  elbows  upon  a  narrow  ledge  before 
her  and  peered  through  a  close  grating  of  bronze  wire  at  a 
figure  dimJy  descried  beyond. 

The  priest  was  white-haired  and  of  small  stature.  A 
meagre  ray  of  light  falling  from  above  upon  the  hands 
clasped  over  the  ends  of  the  narrow  stole  of  violet-purple 
that  hung  loosely  about  his  neck,  showed  them  wasted  and 
yellow-white  and  deeply  wrinkled.  By  the  testimony  of  the 
hands  he  was  an  old  man.  Something  in  the  manner  of  her 
address  must  have  struck  him  as  unusual.  She  had  not 
spoken  six  words  in  her  quick,  hot,  stammering  whisper 
before  he  lifted  a  hand  and  said  authoritatively : 

"Stop!" 

And  as  she  had  arrested  the  rush  of  her  words,  he  had 
continued,  in  a  grave,  dry  voice,  quite  devoid  of  unction  or 
sympathy,  cautiously  lowered  and  yet  wonderfully  distinct : 

"You  say  that  you  wish  to  'confide  something'  to  me 
'under  the  seal  of  Confession, '  and  you  are  not  a  Catholic!" 

"No,  I  am  not!  I  suppose  I  would  be  called — a  sort  of 
Christian,  though."  She  said  it  haltingly.  "Does  my  not 
being  a  Catholic  prevent  you  listening  to  anything  I  .  .  . 
want  to  say?" 

The  dry  voice  came  back: 

"  I  do  not  refuse  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say.  But 
Confession,  Absolution,  and  Penance  are  Catholic  Sacra- 
ments. I  cannot  extend  the  benefits  of  the  Church  to  one 
who  stands  without  her  pale." 

"I'm  sorry!  ...     I  suppose,  I  really  haven't  got  the 


414  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

right  to  ask  advice  from  you,  or  to  expect  you  to  keep  any- 
thing— secret?" 

There  was  a  little  old  man's  cough.  The  dry  voice  fol- 
lowed : 

"I  did  not  say  that.  As  a  priest,  I  am  bound  to  give 
good  counsel  to* those  who  ask  it.  And  I  promise  you,  also 
as  a  priest,  to  respect  your  confidence.  .  .  .  Now  if  you 
desire  to  go  on — for  I  have  several  penitents  waiting — I 
will  ask  you  to  do  so.  Be  clear  and  truthful  and  brief. 
Mention  no  person  by  name.  Let  there  be  no  exaggeration. 
Now  begin!  ..." 

"  It's  like  this  ..."  And  she  had  blurted  out  the  ugly, 
sordid  story,  that  in  the  plain,  unvarnished  narration  grew 
uglier  and  more  sordid  still. 

He  had  listened  without  the  movement  of  an  eyebrow  or 
the  twitch  of  a  muscle.  At  certain  points  where  she  had 
deviated  from  the  sheer  fact  by  a  mere  hairsbreadth  the 
dry  little  cough  had  interjected:  "Think  again!"  When 
she  touched  upon  the  circumstances  that  had  resulted  in 
"another  man's"  offer  of  marriage: 

"You  have  accepted  this  other?"  he  had  asked,  and 
followed  her  affirmative  by  saying,  quietly,  just  as  he  had 
told  her  she  was  not  a  Catholic:  "You  have  not  told  him 
of — what  has  taken  place.  Is  he  an  honourable,  upright 
man?" 

"Very!" 

"H'mm!"  said  the  dry  cough.     "What  is  his  religion?" 

"He  is  a  Catholic." 

"H'mm!  .  .  .     A  devout  Catholic?" 

"He  seems — awfully  keen  on  his  Church!" 

A  silence  had  followed,  during  which  the  beating  of  Pa- 
trine 's  heart  and  the  singing  of  the  blood  in  her  ears  had 
seemed  to  fill  the  clean  little  wooden  place.     Then: 

"Do  you  intend  to  tell  this  keen  Catholic,"  asked  the 
merciless  voice,  "that  you  do  not  come  to  him — pure?' 
No!  .  .  .     At  least  ..."     The  heave  of   her  bosom 


<( 


The  Inward  Voice  415 

against  the  little  shelf  before  the  lattice  made  the  dry  wood 
quiver  and  creak.  A  deep  sigh  broke  from  her.  The 
priest's  voice  continued: 

"You  have  made  it  quite  clear  why  you  have  applied  to 
me.  To  be  encouraged  not  to  tell!  But  even  for  your 
own  sake  I  advise  you  to  make  confession.  Do  you  expect 
God's  blessing  upon  a  marriage  that  is — upon  your  side — a 
fraud?" 

"Men  aren't  angels!"  Patrine  burst  out  rebelliously. 
"How  do  I  know  that  he —     Yes,  I  do  know!" 

His  face  had  risen  up  before  her,  and  his  voice  was  in  her 
ears  saying  with  that  note  of  gladness  in  it:  "I  come  to  you 
clean!"  and  shame  and  compunction  choked  her,  as  she 
added : 

"He's  straighter  than  I  should  have  believed  it  possible 
for  any  man  to  be.  " 

"H'mm!"  The  dry  hacking  old  man's  cough  came 
again.  He  sniffed  twice,  sharply.  Now  he  was  speaking 
again. 

"You  have  not  known  many — or  any  Catholic  men 
before  this  one.  Your  doubt  as  to  the  existence  of  masculine 
purity  proves  with  what  type  of  persons  you  have  hitherto 
mixed.  For  your  own  sake  you  will  be  wise  to  tell  the  truth 
to  this  gentleman.  If  you  loved  him  you  would  tell  him 
for  his.  Now  you  must  leave.  I  have  given  you  too  much 
time  as  it  is.  Repeat  after  me  as  I  dictate. "  He  clasped 
the  withered  hands  and  began  briskly:  "Oh,  my  God " 

After  a  brief  ineffectual  hesitation,  Patrine  echoed  him. 
He  went  on  trailing  after  him  a  voice  that  stumbled  and 
dragged : 

"  Oh,  my  God !  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  have  offended  Thee  by 
the  sin  of  fornication,  and  have  yielded  up  my  body  to  unclean- 
ness,  instead  of  keeping  myself  pure  as  Thou  commandest. 
I  beseech  Thee  for  the  love  of  Thy  Son  my  Saviour  Jesus  Christ 
to  bestow  upon  me  the  grace  of  a  genuine  sorrow  for  my  sin; 
and  while  I  implore  that  Thou  wouldst  mercifully  spare  me  the 


4i6  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

ruin  and  disgrace  I  have  merited  hy  my  own  act,  I  faithfully 
promise  Thee  to  profit  by  the  bitter  lesson  I  have  learned.  But 
if  I  find  myself  as  the  natural  consequence  of  my  wicked- 
ness  " 

"  — of  my  wickedness " 

The  dragging  echo  failed.     A  mist  came  before  her  eyes. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  stern  voice  from  the  other  side  of  the 
grating.     It  went  on  dictating : 

*' But  if  I  find  myself  as  the  natural  consequence  of  my 
sinfulness  about  to  be  the  mother  of  a  child,  I  vow  not  to  be 
guilty  of  any  violence  to  the  innocent.  But  to  bear  my  bitter 
punishment  meekly,  as  coming  from  Thy  Hand.     Amen.'' 

She  said  the  words.  He  blessed  her  with  some  such  words 
as  these: 

"Now  may  God  bless  and  forgive  you,  and  bring  your 
soul  from  darkness  into  His  Light.  Leave  me  now.  Please 
shut  the  door." 

She  heard  the  dry  little  hacking  cough  again  as  she  closed 
it  after  her.  But  she  did  not  go  away  thinking  him  harsh 
and  merciless.  She  had  seen  great  shining  tears  dropping, 
dropping  upon  those  withered  hands. 


CHAPTER  LII 


KHAKI 


Remember  how  upon  the  great  grey  canvas  of  London, 
broadly  splashed  in  with  khaki,  from  the  becoming  dead-leaf 
of  the  Regular  troops  to  the  deadly  ginger  of  the  newly 
mobilised  Reserve  or  the  hideous  mustard-yellow  of  the 
latest  recruit  to  the  newest  Territorial  unit — Recruiting 
posters  of  every  shape,  size,  and  method  of  appeal  to  patriot- 
ism, suddenly  flared  out,  ranging  from  the  immemorial  red- 
and-blue  printing  on  white  to  the  huge  pictorial  hoarding- 
plaster  in  monochrome.  Dash  in  as  values  the  glow  of 
re-awakened  patriotism,  the  resounding  silences  in  which 
Royal  Messages  to  British  Citizens  and  lieges  were  delivered 
by  grave  officials  in  scarlet  gowns  and  curly  white  wigs,  and 
the  singing  of  the  National  Anthem  by  huge  crowds  gath- 
ered in  front  of  Buckingham  Palace,  to  cheer,  over  and 
over  again  the  King,  the  Queen,  and  the  Heir  to  the 
British  Throne. 

Recall  how  keenly-curious  Britons  densely  thronged  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  eager  to  ascer- 
tain the  British  attitude  towards  France  and  other  Con- 
tinental Powers;  while  immense  aggregations  of  people 
blocked  the  entrance  to  Downing  Street,  surging  outside  the 
wrought-iron  screens  protecting  Ministerial  windows;  con- 
gesting Whitehalluntil  omnibusesproceeded  at  a  snail's  pace. 

Revive  the  strange  newness  of  things,  the  snap  and  tingle 
of  seeing  not  only  Royal  Palaces  and  Government  Offices, 
but  vital  places  such  as  Arsenals,  Docks,  Railway,  and 
Electric  Power  stations.  Powder-magazines  and  Munition 
Stores  closely  guarded  by  men  in  tea-leaf  or  ginger- 
brown.  Sickly  the  hot  flush  of  things  so  new  with  the  pale 
dread  of  ruin,  the  ugly  rumours  of  Invasion.  Shadow  in 
27  417 


4i8  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

broad  and  black,  a  panic  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  the  dizzy- 
ing fall  of  prices  on  Continental  Bourses,  the  record  slump 
on  Wall  Street,  the  frenzied  stampede  of  the  run  upon  the 
Banks,  the  Proclamation  from  the  steps  of  the  Royal 
Exchange  of  the  strange  thing  called  by  nearly  everybody — 
anything  but  a  Moratorium;  as,  for  example,  a  Monatorial, 
a  Monoroarium  or  Honorarium,  and  so  on. 

Who  could  ever  forget  the  excitement  attendant  on  the 
sailing  of  famous  passenger  and  cargo-liners  with  quick- 
firers  and  Maxims  nosing  through  steel  shields  abaft  the 
lower  bridge?  How  the  Red  Cross  notified  its  surgeons, 
nurses,  and  ambulance-helpers  to  hold  themselves  ready  for 
business,  and  a  neat  khaki  rig-out  that  had  puzzled  us  in 
several  unfamiliar  details,  turned  out  to  be  the  Service  uni- 
form of  the  Royal  Flying  Corps. 

German  and  Austro-Hungarian  Reservists  of  all  classes, 
summoned  home  by  the  strident  bellow  of  Fatherland,  surged 
round  their  respective  Consulates.  Prince  Cheraowski, 
Representative  of  Germany,  having  had  his  passports 
handed  him,  shrugged  the  shrug  of  a  disgruntled  man, 
lighted  a  cigarette,  and  took  a  farewell  constitutional 
through  St.  James's  Park.  And,  on  the  Declaration  of 
War  with  Austria-Hungary  a  few  days  later.  Count  Lens- 
dorff  received  his  walking-ticket,  and  gracefully  vanished 
from  the  scene.  And  from  the  hall-doors  of  one  Embassy 
in  Carlton  House  Terrace  and  another  in  Belgrave  Square, 
British  workmen,  cheerfully  whistling,  unscrewed  the 
massive  brazen  plates.  Crowds  watched  the  operation  in 
phlegmatic  silence;  the  single  individual  who  loosed  a 
"boo"  being  promptly  bonneted  by  a  disapproving 
majority,  and  moved  on  by  the  police,  while  the  windows 
of  the  British  Embassy  at  Berlin  were  being  shattered  by 
brickbats,  as  were  those  of  divers  British  consulates  and 
Legations  throughout  the  Fatherland.  On  the  mud,  stones, 
and  verbal  filth  lavished  on  their  inmates,  of  the  Yahoo-like 
usage  undergone  by  Englishmen  and  Englishwomen,  we 


II 


Khaki  4^9 

''        may  not  dwell,  but  I  do  not  think  we  are  likely  to  forget. 

Recall  again,  how  vast  public  spaces  carefully  kept  and 

tended  by  Committees  and  boards  and  Councils,  became,  as 

at  the  stroke  of  a  wand,  huge  training  camps  of  young,  keen, 

1  healthy  if  pale-cheeked  Britons  in  ill-fitting  gingerbread 
or  mustard-coloured  clothes.  How  groups  of  unoccupied 
London  houses,  or  large  vacant  stores,  or  the  head-centres 
of  the  Y.M.C.A.  in  various  districts,  would  suddenly  over- 
flow with  bronzed  and  sturdy  warriors  of  the  Regular 
Forces,  and  as  suddenly  empty  again.  The  platforms  of 
railway  termini,  closely  guarded  and  barred  from  the 
public,  would  be  dotted  with  neat  stacks  of  Lee  Enfield 
rifles,  while  regularly-breathing  sleepers  in  khaki  pillowed 
on  their  packs,  shielded  by  the  peaks  of  their  tilted  caps 
from  the  blue-white  electric  glare,  or  the  yellow  dazzle  of 
the  morning  sun.  A  whistle — a  snort  and  clank  of  two  big 
locomotives — and  the  platforms  under  the  reverberating 
glass  roofs  would  be  empty  again,  under  the  dusty  yellow 
sunshine,  or  the  blue-white  electric  glare. 

Remember  all  this  to  the  daily  accompaniment  of  those 
huge  shrieking  headlines,  the  trotting  of  innumerable  iron- 
shod  hoofs,  the  ceaseless  rolling  of  iron-shod  wheels,  the 
clatter  and  vibration  of  huge  motor-lorries,  vans,  and 
waggons  commandeered  for  the  use  of  the  Auxiliary  Trans- 
port (brilliantly  painted  in  thousands  of  instances,  and 
proclaiming  in  foot-long  capitals  the  virtues  of  Crump's 
Curative  Saline,  or  Bango's  Extract  of  Beef),  mingled  with 
the  steady  tramp  of  marching  men,  all  through  the  days 
and  nights.  By  night  you  lay  and  listened  to  these  sounds, 
mingled  with  the  bleating  of  flocks  of  sheep,  and  the 
bellownng  of  herds  of  cattle,  until  the  hoofs  and  wheels  and 
marching  boots  mingled  into  the  roar  of  one  great  ink-black, 
awful  River,  whose  ice-cold  woe-waters — sprung  from  some 
mysterious  source — swept  through  our  villages  and  towns 
and  cities,  carrying  with  them  millions  of  lives,  brute  and 
human,  towards  the  blood-red  dawn  of  Death. 


CHAPTER  LIII 

FRANKY  GOES  TO  THE  FRONT ! 

With  the  First  Infantry  Brigade  of  the  First  British 
Expeditionary  Force  went  the  First  Battahon  of  the  Bear- 
skins Plain. 

Exchanging  with  Ackroyd,  "too  sick  a  man  for  fighting" 
(who  parted  with  several  superfluous  inches  of  appendix  and 
convalesced  in  time  to  go  out  with  the  Second  Battalion 
and  meet  a  glorious  end  at  Ypres),  Franky  was  swallowed  up 
in  the  vortex  of  Aldershot.  ooo,  Cadogan  Place  saw  him 
but  once  more  before  the  roaring  flood  whirled  him  away, 
like  a  slim  brown  autumn  leaf,  to  the  Unknown. 

His  gift  to  Margot  on  the  night  of  their  parting  was  a 
silver  elephant  of  truculent  aspect,  having  ruby  eyes  and 
mother-o'-pearl  tusks  and  a  howdah  on  its  back,  accom- 
modating a  "Gladsome  Days"  pull-off  kalendar. 

"You're  such  nuts  on  mascots  and  gadgets,  best  childie, 
I  thought  I'd  get  you  this  beggar  for  a  keepsake.  Saw  it  in 
a  shop  in  Bond  Street.  It  goes  like  so!" — Franky  demon- 
strated by  sticking  a  penknife-blade  under  the  liberal  whack 
of  leaves  that  had  become  obsolete  since  the  First  of  Janu- 
ary. "Rather  a  neat  notion.  Something  appropriate  for 
every  day  o'  the  week,  "  he  continued,  indicating  a  rhymed 
distich  appearing  beneath  the  current  date.  This,  the  first 
of  many  utterances  on  the  part  of  the  Silver  Elephant,  rang- 
ing from  the  idiotically  inappropriate  to  the  appositely 
malign,  ran  as  follows: 

"  Be  very  kind  to  Pussy-cat 
A  nd  handle  Iter  with  care : 
You  would  not  pull  her  by  the  tail 
If  her  claws  grew  out  of  there  I  " 

420 


Franky  Goes  to  the  Front  421 

"Well,  if  that's  the  best  this  beast  can  do — "  began 
Margot,  sternly  surveying  the  proboscidean.  Then  she 
softened,  meeting  Franky 's  disappointed  eyes,  and  said  it 
was  a  lovely  present  and  she  would  always  keep  it  on  the 
table  by  her  bedside.  She  and  Franky  were  almost  lovers 
again  for  the  brief  time  that  yet  remained  to  them.  She 
even  endured  without  open  resentment  his  continual  refer- 
ences to  the  child. 

"Take  care  of  you  both  for  my  sake,  v/on't  you,  Kittums? 
Of  course,  long  before  Christmas  I  hope  to  be  back  with  you ! 
But" — he  tenderly  crushed  the  little  figure  to  him  as  he  sat 
on  the  bedside  holding  it  embraced — "but  if  by  any  old 
chance  I  get  sent  in — remember  what  kind  of  man  I'd  like 
my  boy  to  be.  Sanguine,  ain't  I  ? — on  the  point  of  his  being 
a  boy — putting  a  pink  geranium  in  the  front  window  before 
the  house  is  built,  but  still " 

He  laughed  awkwardly,  and  brushed  off  a  shining  drop  of 
moisture  that  splashed  on  the  slender  brown  leather  strap 
that  marks  the  officer's  caste.  A  third  star  showed  on  his 
khaki  sleeve,  but  he  had  made  no  reference  to  it,  and 
Kittums  omitted  to  ask  what  it  meant.  He  kissed  her 
gravely  on  the  eyes  and  lips  and  forehead,  unwound  the 
slender  arms  that  clasped  his  neck,  and  gently  laid  her  back 
upon  the  pillows.  Then  with:  "Good-night  and  God  bless 
you! "  he  went  quietly  out  of  the  room.  The  hall-door  shut 
and  a  servant  put  the  chain  up,  and  the  waiting  car  slid 
away  to  the  Tower.  For  "  Fm  to  kip  down  at  the  old  shop 
for  to-night, "  Franky  had  explained,  "and  shepherd  five 
hundred  strengthy  foot-sloggers — fat  as  prize  bullocks 
every  one  of  'em! — to  Nowhere  in  Particular  in  the 
morning." 

Margot  cried  a  little  when  the  hall-door  shut,  and  then 
fell  soundly  asleep  among  her  big  pillows.  Waking  as  a  ray 
of  five  o'clock  sunshine  penetrated  between  the  blue-green 
silk  blinds  and  the  lacy  curtains,  to  realise  that  Something 
had  gone  out  of  her  life. 


422  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

Something  wilful,  petulant  Kittums  had  not  valued  until 
the  hall-door  had  shut  behind  it.  Something  that — crawl- 
ing, shuddering  thought! — might  never  return.  She  sat 
up  in  bed,  hugging  her  knees  and  staring  into  a  Future 
without  any  Franky  in  it,  a  tragic  Httle  picture  against  the 
background  of  the  big  frilled  pillows,  her  great  dark  eyes 
wide  and  wild  under  her  tumbled  gold  brown  hair-waves, 
her  paleness  enhanced  by  the  rose-silk  night-sheath,  a 
maelstrom  of  thought,  emotions,  apprehensions,  terrors, 
whirling  in  the  humming-bird  brain. 

The  ray  of  sunshine  presently  touched  the  face  of  the 
electric  clock  and  elicited  a  malicious  twinkle  from  the  ruby 
eyes  of  the  Silver  Elephant.  Remembering  her  promise, 
Kittums  put  out  a  hand,  pulled  off  the  paper-slip  bearing 
the  date  of  the  previous  day  and  read: 

"May  All  Your  Hours 
[Be  Bright  As  This/". 


CHAPTER  LIV 


OFFICIAL  RETICENCE 


The  First  British  Expeditionary  Force  was  in  France. 
Thus  much  after  considerable  delay  was  vouchsafed  us. 
Some  studiously  unenlightening  Field  post-cards,  some 
industriously  Censored  private  letters,  some  Press  nar- 
ratives and  photographs  were  permitted  us,  of  Highlanders, 
Guards,  Scots  Greys,  Middlesex,  Worcestershires,  Gordons, 
and  others,  brought  in  upon  the  midnight  tide  and  debark- 
ing from  huge  transports  at  Boulogne  and  Havre  and 
Rouen,  under  burning  blue  skies  and  a  sizzling  sun.  The 
illustrated  weekHes  and  the  cinematograph  showed  them, 
with  battery  after  battery  of  R.F.A.  and  R.H.A.  and 
R.G.A.,  Ammunuition  parks  and  columns,  and  Engineers 
with  pontoons  on  motor-waggons,  and  Field  Ambulance 
units,  endlessly  streaming  into  or  out  of  the  canvas  cities 
erected  on  the  sites  of  the  old  Napoleonic  camps.  Showed 
also  Comic  Relief,  in  the  familiar  form  of  British  Tommy, 
grinningly  appreciative  of  the  welcome  accorded  him  by 
command  of  the  French  Republic;  meekly  submitting  to  be 
plucked  bare  of  buttons  and  badges,  by  sirens  who  sought 
these  with  offerings  of  chocolate,  wine,  and  fruit.  This 
meagre  pabulum  we  champed,  possessing  our  souls  perforce, 
in  patience;  sitting  before  the  great  iron  curtain  of  official 
reticence  that  had  glided  down  into  its  grooves  as  though  it 
never  meant  to  go  up  again. 

Then,  with  the  whiffling  swoop  of  the  Jabbcrwock — the 
Food  Scare  was  upon  us.  Letters  showered  from  venerable 
maiden  aunts  in  remote  country  districts,  describing  econo- 
mies practised  by  our  great-grandmothers  in  1801  and 
1814.     Hot-eyed  friends  buttonholed  one  and  whispered  of 

423 


424  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

Famine  that  was  coming,  and  pressed  crumpled  pamphlets, 
dealing  with  Food  Values,  into  one's  unwilling  hand.  The 
Specie  Scare  came  next,  rousing  the  most  phlegmatic  to 
frenzied  indignation.  What!  In  lieu  of  the  smooth  plump 
British  sovereign  and  half-sovereign  welcomed  in  every 
corner  of  the  civilised  world,  must  we  perforce  accept  the 
"magpie,"  or  One  Pound  note,  and  the  "pinky"  or  ten- 
shilling  bill! 

People  frothed  and  vituperated.  We  were  all  frothing, 
what  time  the  stocky  Kalmuck-faced  von  Kluck  with 
130,000  Germans  of  the  Kaiser's  First  Army  came  rolling 
down  in  overwhelming  force  upon  the  First  and  Second 
British  Army  Corps.  Eighty  thousand  men  of  our  blood 
holding  the  line  of  the  canal  from  Condd  to  "a  place  called 
Mons"  with,  as  the  flanking  angle,  another  place  called 
Binche. 

The  5th  French  Army  was  in  full  retreat  from  Namur  and 
Charleroi ;  borne  back  by  the  resistless  pressure  of  von  Bue- 
low.  Chief  of  the  Second  Army  of  Attila,  250,000  strong. 
The  4th  French  Army  was  retiring  before  von  Hahsen  and  a 
third  tidal  wave  of  armed  Germanity — humping  its  huge 
snaky  columns  after  the  fashion  of  the  looper  caterpillar — 
along  the  menaced  line  of  the  Meuse. 

The  Krupp  and  Skoda  motor-howitzers  that  had  crushed 
Belgian  fortresses  like  eggshells  were  coming  into  position; 
the  circling  enemy  aeroplanes  were  directing  with  smoke- 
rockets  the  uncannily  excellent  shooting  of  the  German 
Artillery.  We  who  thought  we  had  no  more  than  a  couple 
of  Army  Corps  in  front  of  us,  and  possibly  a  Division  of 
Cavalry,  were  beginning  to  realise  the  ugly  truth.  As  the 
frightful  blizzard  of  iron  and  flame  broke  upon  the  British 
batteries,  and  the  shallow  trenches  made  in  desperate  haste 
and  crowded  with  the  flower  of  the  British  Army,  began  to 
lose  the  shape  of  trenches,  to  melt — to  become  mere 
scratches  in  the  earth,  littered  with  human  scrap.  .  .  . 

We  did  not  suspect,  we  never  dreamed  of  grave  disaster 


i 


Official  Reticence  425 

to  our  Forces,  though  some  of  us  were  strangely  haunted  by 
well-loved  looks  and  dear  familiar  touches  before  the  Iron 
Curtain  of  official  silence  lifted  that  quarter-inch  and  the 
thick  red  stuff  oozed  slowly  underneath. 

An  hour  or  two  before  the  Great  Awakening,  Margot  had 
'phoned  asking  Patrine  to  come  round.  Arriving,  her  friend 
found  Kittums  sorely  exercised  in  spirit.  The  housekeeper, 
in  tears,  had  sought  an  interview  on  the  Food  Question 
and  entreated  her  lady  to  lose  no  time  in  provision- 
ing the  domestic  citadel  with  Flour,  Sugar,  Bacon,  Tea, 
Coffee,  Potatoes,  Cereals,  and  tinned  meats  against  the 
approaching  days  of  famine.  She  begged  to  submit  a  List. 
It  would  be  well  to  lose  no  time  for  all  the  Banks  were 
breaking.     She  felt  it  her  duty  to  mention  the  fact. 

"And  so  I  told  Wallop  to  dry  her  poor  old  eyes,"  ex- 
plained Kittums,  "and  I'd  go  and  buy  up  the  Army  and 
Navy  Stores  as  soon  as  I'd  had  a  look  in  at  what  Franky 
calls  the  Dross  House,  just  to  ask  the  Manager,  as  man  to 
man,  if  there's  any  chance  of  the  Bank  going  biff?  Your 
adorable  Lynette  and  your  Uncle  Owen  may  say  that  hoard- 
ing things  to  eat  isn't  playing  the  game  and  all  that.  Well! 
When  you're  too  sharp-set  to  think  Imperially,  come  round 
here  and  I'll  grub  the  lot.     How  is  your  Flying  Man? " 

"Doing  some  Army  Coaching.  Out  Farnborough  way, " 
said  Patrine.  "I've  not  set  eyes  on  him  twice  since  that 
Club  lunch." 

"When  Franky  cottoned  to  him  so,"  said  Margot. 
"You've  not  had  a  scrimmage?" 

"God  forbid!" 

"Engaged  people  always  squabble." 

"Alan  and  I  don't,"  asserted  Patrine. 

The  car  came  round  and  they  drove  to  the  Bank.  Most 
Banks  had  enjoyed  a  Run  and  a  few  had  experienced  the 
combination  of  a  Run  with  a  Panic.  There  had  been  a 
severe  Run  on  Margot's  bank.     Now  it  was  over  and  a 


426  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

huge  majority  among  the  people  who  formed  queues  at  the 
doors  and  crowded  the  counters  were  paying  in  the  deposits 
they  had  nervously  withdrawn.  Relieved  in  mind,  Kittums 
cashed  a  cheque  of  magnitude,  and  the  respectable  Williams 
turned  the  car  in  the  direction  of  the  Stores. 

On  this  Day  of  the  Great  Awakening,  Woman  stormed 
the  departments.  Kittums  and  Patrine  plunged  into  the 
scrum,  to  emerge  after  having  achieved  a  modified  success. 
Lady  Norwater's  explanation,  that  she  required  provisions 
in  wholesale  bulk  because  of  a  yachting-trip  she  meditated, 
had  been  hit  upon  by  several  thousands  of  other  terminolog- 
ical inexactitudinarians.  The  mounds  of  bacon,  the  cas- 
tled tins  of  tea  and  coffee,  the  sacks  of  sugar,  rice,  and  cereals, 
the  raisins,  currants,  and  tinned  comestibles — had  been 
nearly  all  picked  up  by  these  knowing  early  risers.  Still 
enough  had  been  secured  to  relieve  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Wallop, 
and  scare  the  wolf  from  the  threshold  of  oo,  Cadogan  Place. 

"Beg  pardon,  m'  lady. "  The  sedate  face  of  the  respect- 
able Williams  looked  over  the  last  Brobdingnagian  parcel 
transferred  to  his  embrace.  "I  think  if  your  ladyship  'as 
no  objection  it  would  be  better  to  close  the  car. " 

"If  it  will  close, "  began  Margot,  looking  with  interested 
speculation  at  the  mountainous  accumulation  of  bulky, 
whitey-brown  string-tied  bags  and  packages  upon  the  front 
seat. 

"FOOD  'OGS!"  bellowed  a  man  in  a  rusty  bowler  hat 
and  soiled  shirt  sleeves,  so  suddenly  and  powerfully  that 
Kittums  jumped. 

"Garn  'ome!"  vindictively  shrieked  a  fiery-faced  female. 
"Greedy-guts!     Yah!     Git  along 'ome!" 

"FOOD  'OGS!"  reiterated  the  Stentor  in  shirt  sleeves, 
backed  by  an  approving  murmur  from  a  crowd  of  dingily- 
clad  men  and  women  gathered  upon  the  pavement  right  and 
left  of  the  imposing  entrance  to  the  Stores. 

"Now  then,  move  on  'ere!"  came  from  a  policeman,  and 
the  crowd  began  to  dissolve,  with  lowering  glances.     Motor- 


Official  Reticence  427 

cars  were  moving  away,  carrying  their  owners  embedded  in 
groceries.     Others  were  driving  up  to  the  door. 

"Move  on,  please!"  repeated  the  Man  in  Blue. 

"Not  till  I've  got  rid  of  these  things.  Call  the  Commis- 
sionaire. Tell  him  my  name  and  number! — say  the  orders 
were  given  by  mistake!  ..."  Margot  went  on,  when  the 
Alpine  range  of  parcels  had  melted  away  under  the  com- 
bined efforts  of  chauffeur  and  Commissionaire:  "Poor  old 
Wallop  will  wail,  but  I've  purged  myself  of  the  contempt  of 
being  a  Food  Hog.  Great  Snipe !  to  think  of  deserving  to  be 
called  such  an  awful  name.  It  made  me  feel  all  of  seventeen 
stone,  with  a  row  of  chins  like  saddle-bags!"  She  pinched 
her  own  dainty  chin  between  a  tiny  finger  and  thumb. 
"Still,  I've  enjoyed  the  scrum,"  she  went  on,  as  the  car 
slid  towards  Piccadilly.  It's  bucked  me  splendidly!  I 
shall  know  what  to  do  now,  when  I  want  to  lay  my  ghosts. 
You  know  one  of  them" — the  little  fingers  twitched  in 
Patrine's — "what's  coming  in  November.  The  other 
started  haunting  me  only  a  few  days  back. "  All  the  new- 
won  colour  had  died  out  of  the  small  oval  face  and  the  great 
dark  eyes  were  tragic  in  their  terror.  "You're  too  good  a 
pal  to  laugh.  Well,  then — I'll  own  up.  Franky's  my  latest 
ghost  of  all!" 

"  But  you  have  heard  ?     You  have  had  letters  ? " 

The  answer  was  strangled  between  a  laugh  and  a  sob. 

"Letters.  Three  post-cards  from  Somewhere  in  France 
and  a  queer  epistle  all  squares  of  blacking.  Not  much 
between — except  that  he  is  tophole  and  coming  Home  at 
Christmas  and  sends  love  to  us  both!  That's  Franky's 
way.  He  always  talks  as — "  A  shudder  went  through  the 
little  figure,  and  shadows  were  about  the  great  wild  eyes, 
and  the  pale  lips  quivered: 

"  Poor  little  Kittums!"  said  Patrine's  big  warm  baritone. 
She  slipped  an  arm  tenderly  about  the  little  thing.  Who 
could  have  dreamed  that  Kittums  could  care  so  about 
Franky — or  any  other  man.     "Are  you  worrying  so  badly, 


428  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

my  dinkie?"  she  went  on,  soothingly:  "Try  not.  It  isn't 
wise!" 

"I'm  not  worrying,"  came  the  weary  answer.  "  I'm  being 
haunted — that's  all.  Day  and  night  since  it  started,  his 
hands  are  on  me  and  his  eyes  are  looking  at  me.  When  I 
sleep,  I'm  wandering  through  desolate  places  looking, 
always  looking  for  him!  And  thousands  of  other  selfish, 
silly  women  are  being  haunted  in  the  same  way.  Oh,  Pat, 
be  always  kind  when  you're  married  to, your  Flying  Man!" 

"When! — Patrine  echoed.  But  what  of  sorrow  or 
doubt  her  tone  conveyed  was  lost  upon  Margot.  She  had 
told  her  own  grief,  and  the  telling  had  relieved  her.  Like 
the  child  with  the  kissed  bruise,  she  could  prattle  of  other 
things.  She  was  twittering  and  chirping  in  the  gay  little 
voice  Franky  knew  so  well,  as  Williams,  the  respectable, 
turned  smoothly  into  Short  Street.  There  was  a  dense 
block  at  the  corner  by  the  Aldebaran  Hotel,  and  amidst 
the  swishing  of  the  motor-engines  and  the  fidgeting  of  plump 
carriage-horses,  loathful  of  the  sudden  release  of  the  pun- 
gent exhaust  from  escape-valves  under  their  noses — a  little 
piece  of  dialogue  between  two  Cyprians  on  the  near  side- 
walk drove  home  to  both  the  occupants  of  the  car. 

One  Cyprian  was  well-to-do,  past  thirty-five  and  expens- 
ively caparisoned  for  conquest,  from  the  tall  feather  topping 
her  stove-pipe  hat  and  her  burnished  wig  of  Angora  goat- 
hair,  to  her  silk  stockings  of  liberally-open  pattern  and  the 
tips  of  her  high-heeled,  buckled  shoes.  Her  hard  eyes 
under  their  painted  brows  took  critical  stock  of  the  other, 
younger  woman,  whose  make-up  could  not  hide  ill-health, 
and  whose  flaunting  fineries  were  the  worse  for  wear. 

Said  Hard  Eyes,  indicating  with  a  jerk  of  her  powdered 
double  chin,  a  procession  moving  down  Piccadilly  Circus- 
wards — a  pubhsher's  catchpenny  advertisement  of  "WEEP 
NO  MORE,  MOTHERS!"  ingenious  in  its  employment  of 
robust-looking  matrons  as  bearers  of  the  sandwich-boards 
plastered  with  posters  of  rose-colour  and  gold: 


Official  Reticence  429 

"You  could  give  some  of  the  swell  West  End  ladies  a 
tip  or  two,  I  reckon,  Lallie,  about  that  Purple  Dreams 
dope?" 

"Honest  to  God,  I  could!  But  I  wouldn't!"  The 
haggard  eyes  leapt  viciously  out  of  their  languor.  "Let 
'em  run  up  against  it — same  as  me !  Me  that  went  all  the 
way  to  Brussels  to  get  the  new  treatment.  Great  Scott! 
When  I  came  to  I  was  black  and  blue  and  green  all  over. 
And  my  face !  It  was  a  fair  scream ! ' '  She  threw  an  apprais- 
ing side-glance  in  a  shop  window.  "No!  My  skin'll  never 
be  what  it  used,  I  reckon." 

"But  the" — the  hard  eyes  between  the  elder  woman's 
blued  lids  were  hideously  significant — "the  Trouble,  eh?" 

"The  Trouble" — Lallie's  still  girlish  shoulders  shrugged. 
— "Oh,  that's  all  right!  I  heard  no  more  of  it!  There's 
the  one  comfort.  Good-bye,  ducky.  I  got  to  meet  some- 
body at  the  Cri." 

"Well,  better  luck!"  And  as  the  block  broke  and  the 
car  moved  on,  the  women  nodded  and  parted.  Margot 
and  her  friend  Patrine  did  not  look  at  each  other  as  the  car 
stopped  before  the  Club. 

A  glance  showed  the  vestibule  crowded,  the  second  pair  of 
swing-doors  thudded  momentarily  as  members  and  their 
guests  passed  on  into  the  Club  rooms,  without  relieving  the 
congestion  that  fresh  arrivals  renewed.  Some  doors  above, 
a  piano-organ  in  charge  of  two  men  was  jolting  out  the  last 
bars  of  the  Russian  National  Anthem.  One  of  the  men, 
olive-skinned,  grey-haired,  and  dressed  in  threadbare  black, 
sang  the  words  with  perfunctory  fervour  in  a  cracked  tenor 
voice.  As  the  last  chord  banged  out  and  the  organist  jerked 
the  changing-lever  over,  and  the  Marseillaise  summoned 
janghng  echoes  of  its  lyrical  frenzy  from  the  pavement  and 
the  surrounding  walls,  Patrine,  meeting  Sherbrand's  eyes 
over  the  crowded  heads  of  people,  knew  a  sudden  shock  of 
apprehension  in  the  strangeness  of  their  regard. 

For  day  and  night  since  that  strange,  impulsive  visit  she 


430 


That  Which   Hath  Wings 


had  made  to  the  Confessional — "  You  must  tell  him.  It  is 
your  duty  to  tell  him ! "  had  sounded  in  her  ears.  She  set  her 
teeth  and  determined  that  she  would  never  tell  him,  none 
the  less  knowing  that  the  revelation  would  be  made.  A 
Power  infinitely  stronger  than  her  woman's  will  was  bearing 
upon  it.  Her  treasure  was  in  peril,  her  fairy-gold  at  any 
moment  might  turn  to  withered  leaves  at  a  breath  from  her 
own  mouth. 


CHAPTER  LV 


NEWS  OF  BAWNE 


"Pat!— what  luck!" 

Sherbrand  was  standing  before  her,  tall  and  lean  and 
masterful,  saluting  her  with  the  touch  of  three  fingers  to  a 
soldierly  forage-cap  with  three  buttons,  set  jauntily  atilt  on 
the  broad  tanned  brow. 

Ah!  the  delight  of  seeing  the  cold  grey  glance  warm  into 
sea-blue,  the  lean,  eagle-face  flash  into  smiles.  For  a  little 
while  yet  he  was  hers,  she  told  herself,  as  the  hard  hand 
gripped  on  hers  that  answered  the  swift  fierce  pressure,  and 
her  blood  that  the  sickly  chill  of  fear  had  stagnated,  whirled 
on  its  crimson  circle  singing  for  joy.  And  then — a  second 
glance,  sweeping  from  the  top  to  the  toes  of  the  tall  manly 
figure,  stopped  the  song. 

"Alan!     You— in  khaki ! " 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  said  a  little  clumsily,  echoing  thou- 
sands of  other  men.  "It's  the  universal  wear  just  now, 
isn't  it?  We  fellows  must  make  good  while  we  can — and 
we're  all  of  us  joining.  Even  Macrombie — you  can't  have 
forgotten  Macrombie — has  got  his  rating,  and  is  acting  a 
P.O.T.  on  a  Destroyer  in  the  North  Sea." 

Do  you  see  the  dour  drunkard  standing  up,  under  the  eye 
of  the  smart  young  inspecting  Fleet  Surgeon,  naked  save 
for  the  leather  bootlace  that  held  a  battered  silver  locket 
round  his  harsh  and  swarthy  scrag. 

"Your  age?  .  .  ," 

"Ye  micht  ca'  me  forty,"  said  the  subject,  with  caution. 

"I  might,  but  I'd  be  a  liar  !"  said  the  Fleet  Surgeon,  "so 
try  again,  my  man!" 

431 


432  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

"Ye  micht  pit  twa  to  the  f  orr-ty, "  came  rumbling  from 
the  hairy  chest. 

"And  tack  eight  on  to  that,"  thus  the  Fleet  Surgeon, 
tucking  the  hooked  ends  of  the  stethoscope  into  his  ears, 
and  deftly  applying  the  microphone.  "And  then  I'd  be 
wide  of  the  actual!  Breathe  deeply,  will  you!"  The  effort 
provoked  a  volley  of  coughs  sounding  like  half-bricks 
pitched  against  the  sides  of  an  empty  cistern  and  the  Fleet 
Surgeon  shook  his  head. 

''Hough — hough — hough! — why  didna'  ye — hough!  lat 
weel  alane?"  gasped  Macrombie,  with  eyes  blazing  hell-fire 
through  the  moisture  engendered  by  the  cough.  "  Dinna  ye 
ken  I'll  never  no'  be  wanting  to  breathe  deeply  whaur  ye're 
needing  to  send  me  ?  There  is  nae  room  whatever  for  lung- 
play  oot  o'  the  ordinar ', "  he  added  scornfully,  "  aboard  ane 
o'  thae  kittle,  cranky,  tinpot  Destroyers!" 

"  Hold  out  your  hand ! "  commanded  the  arbiter  of  Destin- 
ies. He  contemplated  the  extended  member,  wavering 
and  fluttering  like  the  indicator-needle  on  the  dial  of  an 
atmospheric  pressure-gauge.  "Pretty  wobbly,  what?"  he 
commented  to  the  owner  with  the  sarcastic  inflection  that 
advertised  a  keen  advocate  of  Temperance. 

"Man,  O!  man!"  broke  from  Macrombie  in  a  harsh  rat- 
tling whisper,  desperate  appeal  flashing  in  his  burnt-out 
eyes,  "  you  that  are  young  enough  to  be  my  son,  tak'  me  or 
leave  me,  ane  or  the  tither — but  shame  me  nae  mair!" 

Telegraphists  were  sorely  needed,  so  Macrombie  of  the 
racking  hoast  and  the  shaky  hand  was  passed  as  fit  for  Ser- 
vice, and  duty  rated  as  Petty  Officer  Telegraphist  aboard 
one  of  the  contemned  tin-pots. 

The  Crown  and  winged  double-thunderbolt  must  have 
nerved  the  arm  they  came  back  to.  For,  on  the  day  of  the 
Battle  of  Jutland,  when  a  point-blank  salvo  from  an  enemy 
cruiser  wrecked  the  bridge  and  searchlight  platform,  carry- 
ing away  the  forward  mast  and  funnel  of  Macrombie's 
particular  tin-pot,  and  men  in  respirators  were  fighting  the 


News  of  Bawne  433 

smothering  fumes  of  the  fire  caused  by  German  shells  of  the 
incendiary  description,  a  dour,  stark  man  whose  clothes  were 
alight  and  burning  on  him,  stuck  grimly  to  his  post  among  the 
wreckage  of  the  shattered  Wireless  room ,  sending  out  the  mes- 
sage last  dictated  by  the  officer  who  lay  dead  across  the  blister- 
ing steel  plating — for  the  short  circuit  set  up  by  the  smashed 
searchhght  had  created  its  own  separate  conflagration,  and 
the  electricity  was  "running  out  of  everything  like  oil.  " 

When  the  tin-pot  heeled  over,  and,  having  duly  buried 
her  steel  chest  and  secret  documents,  went  down  with 
colours  flying  in  a  smother  of  oily  steam,  men  who  were 
saved  on  the  rafts  told  this  tale  of  Macrombie,  who  sleeps 
well,  after  Life's  thirsty  fever,  at  his  post  in  the  Destroyer's 
battered  Wireless  cabin,  on  the  deep-ridged,  sandy  bottom 
of  the  wild,  shallow  North  Sea. 

Patrine  felt  her  heart  crushed  as  in  the  grip  of  a  cold  steel 
gauntlet.  Her  apprehensions  had  not  been  unfounded. 
She  and  Alan  were  to  be  parted,  if  not  as  she  had  feared. 

"I — suppose  I  ought  to  congratulate  you — "  Her 
unwilling  eyes  admired  the  tall  manly  figure  in  the  plain 
workmanlike  uniform.  The  buttonless  tunic  with  its  Lan- 
cer plastron,  the  riding-breeches  of  ampler  cut  than  the 
cavalryman's,  the  high  spurless  boots  of  supple  brown 
leather,  and  the  belt  that  carried  a  revolver  and  no  sword. 
"What — what  are  you  in?"  she  asked  draggingly,  and  he 
answered  with  a  smile  and  a  flash  of  his  grey  eyes : 

"I  hope  I'm  in  for  some  of  what's  going  on!" 

"How  glad  you  are!" 

"  Rather.  I  should  think  so!  Now  that  they've  let  me 
into  the  Royal  Flying  Corps  as  a  T.  S.  L.  Look  at  my 
wings!"  He  touched  the  white  outspread  pinions  on  the 
tunic-breast  with  a  reverent  finger-tip  and  went  on  pouring 
out  his  story  without  a  break.  "It's  cost  me  some  badger- 
ing of  High  Officials  of  Military  Aeronautics  at  Whitehall, 

and  a  lot  of  time  wasted  in  baby  tests.     Squad  drill,  Harris 

28 


434  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

tube,  bomb-dropping,  air-signalling,  Webley  and  Scott 
practice,  and  so  on.  Now  I'm  teaching  trick-flying  to  Army 
aviators  from  4.30  a.m.  till  ii  p.m.  The  Powers  that  Be 
have  taken  over  the  Flying  Schools — Durrant's  Caf6  is  our 
Officer's  Mess  now.  You  should  see  old  Durrant  in  his 
glory  as  Head  Waiter.  And  Mrs.  D — "  His  white  teeth 
flashed  as  he  laughed. 

"And  they  have  known  of  this  " — she  nodded  at  the  eagle- 
wings — "while  I  have  been  kept  in  ignorance !     How  long? " 

"Not  quite  a  fortnight.     Don't  be  unreasonable,  dear!" 

The  new  tone  stung.  Did  a  yellow  star  upon  the  cuffs 
and  shoulder-straps  and  a  pair  of  white  wings  on  the  left 
breast  mean  so  much  to  him  that  her  just  claims  upon  his 
confidence  seemed  wanting  in  reason  now?  Anger  and 
resentment  choked  her  as  he  added: 

"I  am  here  now,  as  it  happens,  because  I'm  crossing  the 
Channel  to-morrow  at  peep  o'  day."  Something  in  her 
pale  face  made  him  add:  "Don't  worry!— I'm  likely  to  be 
back  again  by  nightfall.  That's  what  I've  rushed  in  here 
to  tell  you,  though  I've  a  man  in  tow,  a  Wing  Commander 
of  the  French  S.  Ae.  Hot  from  the  Front  and  just  landed 
at  Hendon.  I  had  to  take  him  in  my  car  to  his  Embassy, 
and  now  I've  got  to  find  him  a  room  at  an  hotel.  When  I've 
done  it  I'm  coming  back  here  to  talk  to  you.  Where  on 
earth  has  my  man  got  to?  Why,  there  he  is,  talking  to 
Lady  Norwater.  The  little  chap  with  the  grey  moustache 
and  the  gold-banded  kepi.  " 

"I  am  honoured  by  Madame's  gracious  remembrance," 
the  person  indicated  could  be  heard  protesting,  during  an 
instant's  lull  in  the  Babel  of  voices  round.  "But  my  own 
— a  thousand  pardons!  is  less  accurate." 

"Oh!"  Margot  expostulated,  "but  you  can't  have 
forgotten.  That  Sunday  of  the  Grande  Semaine — when 
you  were  in  the  Bois,  timing  a  Flying  Officer  who  was  test- 
ing an  English  invention — a  sort  of  a " 

"But    assuredly,    Madame!"     His    quick   nod    and   the 


News  of  Bawne  435 

gesture  of  his  gloved  hand  summoned  up  the  scene  vividly. 
"I  remember,  but  perfectly,  though  much  water  has  rolled 
under  the  bridges  since  that  day.  And  Milord — Madame's 
husband?" 

"He's  at  the  Front,"  Margot  explained,  "wherever  the 
Front  is!" 

"Unfortunately  at  the  moment,"  returned  the  suave 
voice,  "the  Front  is  everywhere.  It  is  easy  to  find  without 
binoculars.  Adieu,  Madame.  Merci  bien  de  la  souvenir  si 
gracieuse,  diles  mes  amities  a  Monsieur."  And  in  another 
moment  he  arrived  beside  Sherbrand,  exclaiming  with  his 
vivacious  shrug  and  gesture:  "My  faith,  my  friend,  your 
London  Cercle  des  Dames  is  a  veritable  Paradise  of  Mahom- 
med.  Now  in  Paris,  at  least  before  the  War — instead  of 
ten  thousand  houris  to  every  true  Believer,  one  counted 
at  least  three  Adams  to  every  Eve.  But  I  observe  your 
search  has  been  successful.  Will  you  not  present  me  to 
Mademoiselle  your  fiancee  ?" 

And  the  dapper  middle-aged  Wing  Commander  in  the 
gold-banded  kepi,  whose  dark  plain  tmiform  displayed  the 
gold  badge  of  the  Service  Aeronautique  under  the  Cross  of 
the  Legion  of  Honour,  was  introduced  as  Captain  Raymond 
by  an  off-hand  young  Briton  who  comprehended  not  in  the 
least  the  immense  condescension  that  had  prompted  the 
request. 

"  Sapristi  !"  thought  Raymond,  as  Patrine  gave  him  her 
large  hand  and  assured  him  in  her  big  warm  voice  that  she 
was  frightfully  pleased  to  meet  a  friend  of  Alan's. — "A 
magnificent  type  of  the  human  female  animal  to  have  paired 
with  this  bluff,  simple  English  boy.  Part  femme  du  monde, 
part  romping  hoyden,  part  cabotine,  she  should  have  been  a 
Duchesse  of  the  old  Napoleonic  regime,  or  at  least  the  effect 
that  lies  behind  a  cause  celebre  of  the  Paris  Law  Courts  of 
modern  days.  And  she  will  be  expected  by  this  honest 
fellow  to  live  in  a  stucco  villa  at  Kensington  or  the  Crystal 
Palace,  and  bear  and  rear  his  children,  and  live  and  die  in 


436  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

all  the  deadly  respectability  of   the    British  middle-class 
milieu!^' 

But  he  made  his  beautiful  bow  and  murmured  some  civil 
phrases.  In  the  spring,  at  the  Hendon  Flying  Grounds  of 
M.  Fanshaw,  he,  Raymond,  had  been  interested  to  meet  the 
friend  of  Mademoiselle.  Had  been  profoundly  impressed 
by  the  displayed  inventions  of  a  young  man  so  gifted  as 
aviator  and  engineer.  Had  had  the  good  fortune  subse- 
quently to  obtain  the  consent  of  his  own  Chiefs  of  the  S. 
Ae.  F.  to  a  test  of  an  invention — the  value  of  which  had 
been  hall-marked  by  the  approbation  of  Messieurs  les  AUe- 
mands.  True,  M.  Sherbrand  had  been  the  victim  of  their 
unscrupulosity.  But  Fortune,  who  knew?  might  be  kinder 
in  the  near  future.  This  War  so  grievous,  so  brutal,  so 
deplorable,  waged  by  the  Prussian  against  Civilisation  and 
Progress,  would  open  up  not  only  le  metier  des  armes,  but 
countless  other  avenues  of  prosperity  to  thousands  of  ar- 
dent and  gifted  young  men.  Like  M.  Sherbrand.  To  whom 
Raymond  said  with  an  authoritative  glance  of  his  blue  eye: 
" My  friend,  we  keep  your  auto  waiting  at  the  door!" 

"Ah,  but  stay!"  Patrine  began,  with  a  sense  of  hatred 
towards  the  well-used  little  Ford  runabout  standing  in 
much  grander  company  by  the  kerb  outside  the  Club:  "do 
stay  and  lunch  and  smoke  and  tell  us  things  about  the  War, 
won't  you?" 

"A  thousand  thanks,  but  impossible,  Mademoiselle!" 

Raymond  shrugged,  conscious  that  her  look  of  dis- 
appointment was  for  Sherbrand,  and  pleaded  fatigue  as  an 
excuse. 

"For  these  are  iron  times.  Mademoiselle,"  he  went  on  in 
his  smooth,  musical  accents,  "and  we  who  live  in  them  are 
unfortunately  of  flesh  and  blood.  When  the  War  is  done 
perhaps  there  will  again  be  social  pleasures  like  the  lunch 
you  were  so  kind  as  to  offer  me.  That  I  am  tempted  to 
accept  I  will  not  conceal  from  you.  I  have  not  eaten  since  I 
flew  from  France  at  la  pointe  du  jour — one  of  the  smallest 


News  of  Bawne  437 

of  the  little  hours  of  this  morning,  and  then  I  broke  fast  on 
two  fingers  of  little  red  wine,  and  a  hunch  of  soldier's 
bread." 

"You  mean  to  say  you're  fresh  from  flying  the  Channel?" 

"Crossing  the  Channel  came  near  the  end  of  my  journey, 
Mademoiselle.  I  should  have  arrived  earlier" — he  shrugged 
indifferently — "had  not  some  German  aviators  caused 
delay." 

"Oh-h!"  Her  vexation  passed  like  a  breath  from  a 
mirror.  Her  long  eyes  danced  with  delight  under  her  hat- 
brim.  Her  breath  came  q\iick,  her  red  lips  curled,  and  a 
sweet  faint  pink  showed  under  her  creamy  skin.  "You're  a 
knight  of  the  skies  hot  from  a  fray  with  two  flying  dragons — 
and  you  were  going  v/ithout  saying  a  word!  What  do  you 
think  we  Englishwomen  are  made  of?" 

"Very  desirable  flesh,  some  of  you,  at  least.  Mademoi- 
selle," occurred  to  Raymond,  but  he  suppressed  the  equi- 
voque and  answered  with  professional  brevity: 

"Mademoiselle,  I  regret  there  is  but  little  to  tell  you. 
The  enemy  possesses  an  aerial  organisation  of  great  effective- 
ness which  is  being  chiefly  employed  in  the  killing  of  harm- 
less civilians  and  the  destruction  of  unfortified  towns.  But 
small  success  has  hitherto  attended  his  efforts  in  the  Chan- 
nel. Your  British  Expedition  was  conveyed  across  the 
water  without  the  loss  of  one  piou-piou,  or  any  damage 
received  by  the  explosion  of  a  German  bomb.  As  for  the 
German  aviators  of  whom  I  speak,  their  attitude  towards 
myself  and  my  pilot  was  modest.  Flying  their  double- 
seated  military  Taubes,  of  which  the  wings  and  tail  resemble 
those  of  the  dove  after  which  they  have  been  named,  they 
pursued  our  biplane  half-way  from  Calais  to  Dover  before 
deciding  to  attack." 

"Then — "  She  hesitated,  softly  clapping  her  palms 
together  and  dimpling  like  a  big  child  over  the  telling  of  a 
new  fairy  tale. 

"Then    one    climbed,    possessing    the    advantage    of    a 


438  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

powerful  engine,  and  dropped  a  bomb  from  a  height  of  some 
600  metres  which  exploded  without  hitting  us  and  went  to 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.  While  the  second  aviator,  who  was 
armed  with  a  repeating-carbine,  wounded  my  pilot  so 
severely  that  it  was  only  by  a  miracle  of  endurance  he 
preserved  consciousness  long  enough  to  land  without  a  crash. 
So  I  left  him  at  Dover  and — with  a  pilot  mechanic  from  the 
Air  Station,  completed  my  passage,  descending  at  Brook- 
lands  at  twelve  demie. " 

"Was  your  pilot  hurt  very  badly?  Will  he  be  able  to  fly 
back  to  France  ? " 

"Mademoiselle,  being  a  pious  Catholic,  he  has  already 
flown  to  Heaven. " 

"He  is  dead.  .  .  .  And  you  can  joke!"  Patrine  re- 
proached him.     His  face  was  very  wrinkled  as  he  smiled. 

"Mademoiselle,  if  a  soldier  could  not  jest  at  Death  upon 
occasion.  Life  for  a  soldier  would  be  impossible !  Of  verity, 
the  loss  of  a  good  -pWot-aviateur  is  not  a  thing  to  joke  about, 
but  fortunately  I  have  your  friend  to  fill  his  place." 

''Alan !     You  must  not — I  will  never  consent  to  it! " 

All  taken  aback,  her  colour  banished,  she  fixed  Sherbrand 
with  blazing  imperative  eyes.  He  reddened  to  the  hair  and 
his  mouth  shut  firmly.  For  the  first  time  there  was  a  clash 
of  wills  between  the  pair. 

"Alan,  wh}'  didn't  you  ask  me?" 

He  was  redder  than  ever. 

"Because  it  wasn't  for  you  to  say.  It  is  an  order  from 
my  Chiefs — don't  you  understand?" 

She  did  not  care  that  the  French  officer  was  smiling. 
She  would  have  liked  to  have  struck  him  in  his  merrily- 
crinkled  face.  Wretch!  to  have  blurted  the  truth  at  her 
that  Alan  had  hidden.     What  was  he  saying: 

"Permit,  Mademoiselle,  that  I  make  my  adieux.  I  go 
to  secure  an  apartment  where  I  may  repose  myself. "  He 
looked  at  Sherbrand,  saying  in  his  cool  tone  of  authority: 
"The  Aldebaran, — that  is  in  the  next  street  and  a  good 


News  of  Bawne  439 

hotel,  is  it  not  so?  A  little  sleep  will  not  come  amiss  after  a 
cutlet  and  a  demi-houteille.  And  whilst  I  eat  we  will  settle 
our  affaires.     Eh,  mon  lieutenant?" 

His  gloved  hand  took  Sherbrand  neatly  by  the  elbow. 
He  was  skilfully  steering  him  towards  the  doorway  when 
Patrine,  white  and  flaming,  placed  herself  in  their  path. 

"My  affairs  come  first!"  she  was  beginning. 

''Shut  up!"  came  from  Sherbrand,  in  an  exasperated  aside 
whisper.  "  My  duty  comes  before  you — or  anything  in  the 
world.  It  should  come  first  for  you  if  you  cared  a  damn 
forme!" 

No  one  but  Raymond  had  overheard  the  curious,  fierce 
colloquy.  She  felt  literally  scorched  by  the  hot  look  of 
anger.  vShe  knew  an  agony  like  the  tearing  of  the  tissues  of 
the  flesh  when  Sherbrand  passed  her  and  went  out  with  that 
gloved  hand  of  authority  upon  his  arm. 

"Women  are  the  devil ! "  he  thought  bitterly,  as  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  runabout  Ford  to  admit  the  French  S^aff 
Officer.  "She'd  had  a  shock  in  being  told  the  news  so 
suddenly;  but  to  ballyrag  me — to  make  me  look  such  a 
thundering  idiot  before  him  ! ' ' 

He  swung  the  crank  with  violence  and  wrenched  angrily 
at  the  levers  when  he  took  the  driving-seat.  A  gloved  hand 
patted  his  arm,  and  Raymond's  voice  said  in  his  ear: 

"Bah!  You  are  chagrined,  my  friend,  because  a  hand- 
some woman  has  made  you  a  little  drama.  Think  no  more 
of  it!  I  have  forgotten,  for  my  part."  He  added,  as  they 
got  out  at  the  Aldebaran:  "I  propose  to  detain  you  but  a 
little  while,  mon  ami.  When  we  have  completed  arrange- 
ments for  the  start  to-morrow,  you  will  be  free  to  return  and 
make  your  peace  with  Mademoiselle." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  She  was  rattled  at  my  telling  her  so 
suddenly  about  my  Commission,"  said  Sherbrand,  still 
beclouded.     "Women  are  all  like  that,  I  suppose?" 

"Except  in  France,"  said  the  agreeable  voice  of  Ray- 
mond, "where  the  love  of  Country  is  stronger  in  our  women 


440  That   Which   Hath  Wings 

than  the  love  of  lover  or  even  of  child.  It  was  so  before 
1870.  They  have  remembered  through  the  centuries,  as 
their  sisters  of  Britain  have  not.  They — the  women  of 
England  are  patriotic — oh  yes!  but  patriotism  is  not  yet  a 
religion  to  them.  It  will  cost  millions  of  lives,  and  of  blood 
an  ocean  to  kindle  that  flame  within  their  souls.  Then, 
they  also  will  hold  the  bayonet  to  the  grindstone  with  their 
soft  white  hands  and  say:  'Become  sharp,  to  drink  the  blood 
of  Germans!'  And  they  will  mend  the  soldier's  ragged 
breeches  and  clean  the  soldier's  dirty  rifle,  and  when  they 
do  they  will  not  be  less  womanly.  No,  by  my  faith !  nor  less 
beloved  by  men.  Try  one  of  these.  You  will  not  find  them 
too  bad. " 

He  offered  Sherbrand  a  cigarette  and  took  a  light  from 
him  as  thev  stood  under  the  Aldebaran's  tall  Corinthian 
portico. 

"One  should  always  be  accurate.  When  I  told  you  that 
in  France  there  lived  no  woman  who  was  not  patriotic,  I 
was  in  error.  Such  a  woman  existed  since  three  or  four 
days." 

He  blew  out  a  puff  of  smoke  and  watched  its  mounting 
spiral.     Then  he  resumed : 

"She  was  very  young,  very  pretty,  the  bride  of  a  month, 
and  passionately  enamoured.  When  her  husband  received 
orders  to  proceed  with  his  Regiment  of  Chasseurs  to  the 
Belgian  Front,  she  made  him  a  scene  of  desperation.  She 
would  do  this  and  that  mad  thing  if  he  did  not  take  her. 
Then  she  became  calmer.  She  had  exacted  a  promise  from 
her  doting  cavalryman.  She  should  visit  him  at  the  Front 
at  a  suitable  opportunity.  She  chose  her  own  moment,  my 
faith! — and  what  a  moment!  She  appeared  in  her  hus- 
band's quarters  in  the  French  cavalry  camp  near  Antoine- 
ville  when  the  Germans  were  attacking  Dinant.  When  the 
Cavalry  Division  of  the  Prussian  Guards,  and  the  Cavalry 
of  their  First  Division,  with  some  infantry  battalions  and 
machine-gun  companies  crossed  the  Meuse,  and  we  were  to 


News  of  Bawne  441 

attack,  she  was  lying  in  his  arms,  the  little  idiot!  He  told 
her  to  go  and  she  would  not.  Then  he  entreated  her — a 
fatal  error  that!" 

The  cigarette  was  burning  crookedly,  forgotten  between 
Raymond's  fingers. 

"Then  he  commanded  her.  She  laughed,  and  kissed 
him.  He  gave  back  the  kiss,  drew  his  revolver  and  shot  her 
dead.  Then  he  ran  out — in  time  to  mount  and  wheel  to  his 
place  as  second  in  command  of  his  squadron,  before  the 
Regiment  swept  on  to  the  charge.  Fate  was  kind  to  him. 
He  charged  like  a  Centaur,  and  died  like  a  soldier  of  France 
the  Beloved.  Tell  the  story  to  Mademoiselle  vSaxham. 
She  is  magnificently  handsome,  but  forgive  me !  not  a  patriot. 
And  a  woman  without  patriotism  is — an  altar  without  a 
Sacred  Host  and  a  lamp  without  a  flame." 

They  "went  into  the  hotel.  When  the  Frenchman  had 
secured  a  quiet  bedroom  on  the  fourth  floor,  and  intimated 
that  no  German  was  to  serve  him,  they  went  together  into 
the  dining-room. 

" Pfui!  It  smells  of  soot,  and  petrol,  and  drainage,  this 
London  air  of  yours,"  said  Raymond,  as  he  chose  a  table 
in  a  quiet  corner.  "You  will  eat  with  me?  No!  Then 
smoke  and  share  my  wine.  "  He  ordered  cutlets,  petit  pots, 
SL  sweet  omelette,  and  a  bottle  of  Beaujolais,  and,  filling  his 
own  glass  and  one  for  Sherbrand,  touched  brims  gaily  and 
said  with  a  smile:  "To  France  and  her  Allies,  Victory!  On 
earth,"  a  clink,  "by  sea,  "  a  clink,  "under  the  sea,"  another 
clink,  "and  in  the  Air!" 

He  clinked  three  times,  and  emptied  the  glass  thirstily. 
Sherbrand  asked: 

"Was  the  battle  near  Dinant  a  big  affair?" 

"Not  big."  He  broke  a  roll  and  munched  bread. 
"Not  on  the  grand  scale.  A  spectacle  tres  interessante, 
regarded  from  the — archaic  point  of  view.  An  example  of 
the  ancient  mode  de  bataille  that  will  be  dead  as  the  Dodo  in 
three  months.     Chasseurs  a  cheval  and  German  Imperial 


442  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

Guard  Regiments  charging  and  meeting  with  shocks  like 
thunder.  Much  slaughter.  So  fierce  was  the  onslaught 
upon  our  side  that  the  Germans  were  driven  back  across  the 
Meuse.  Many  missed  the  bridge  and  were  drowned.  One 
French  regiment  followed  them  in  pursuit  for  several  kilo- 
metres. They  were  led  by  the  man  of  whom  I  have  told 
you.     A  glass  to  his  memory — and  hers!'' 

They  touched  full  glasses  and  drank.  Raymond  went 
on. 

"My  Flying  Centre  was  near  Maubeuge  on  the  i6th. 
Some  escadrilles  of  my  command  were  engaged  that  day  near 
Dinant.  My  faith!  those  cotellettes  are  slow  in  arriving." 
He  munched  more  bread,  and  his  blue  eyes  narrowed 
smilingly.  "We  had  only  the  little  bombs  we  used  in 
Morocco,  but  yes ! — we  did  some  good  work  with  the  balles- 
bon.  Flying  low,  at  ordered  distances — for  to  make  War  by 
Air  successfully  the  science  of  tactics  must  assist  the  aviator. 
.  .  .  What  says  j^our  great  Field  Marshal,  who  has  bent  his 
neck  to  the  collar-work  of  Administration — who  has  con- 
jured an  Army  of  trained  soldiers  out  of  your  shops  and 
counting-houses,  and  playing-fields, — and  will  make  an- 
other and  another  when  the  time  comes?" 

Sherbrand  quoted  the  words  uttered  by  the  great  voice 
now  quenched  for  ever  in  the  bitter  waters  of  the  North 
Sea. 

"  Until  aviators  learn  to  fly,  mano'uvre,  and  attack  in  regular 
formation,  the  Fifth  Arm  will  remain  a  useless  limb." 

"  Tonnerre  de  Dieu!  but  that  goes  to  the  point,"  said 
Raymond,  "straight  and  sharp  as  a  thrust  from  his  sword. 
If  we  possessed  that  man  we  should  make  use  of  him.  He 
should  be  Marshal  of  France,  or  President  or  Emperor — all 
we  should  ask  of  him  would  be  to  lead  us.  Notr'  Joffre 
would  not  be  jealous — they  would  agree  like  the  hilt  and 
the  hand.  But  I  was  telling  you  of  an  attack  by  theflech- 
ette.  .  .  .  You  may  imagine  how  the  Uhlans  loved  that 
rain  of  steel.     It  changed  the  retreat  to  a  rout.     Only  it 


News  of  Bawne  443 

spoiled  so  many  German  horses.  Right  through  the  man, 
you  understand,  into  the  animal !  .  .  .  Sieves  on  four  legs 
are  useless  as  Remounts  for  French  Chasseurs." 

"And  the  German  Field  Flight?  "Sherbrand  interrogated- 

"Their  Fifth  Arm  was  represented,"  said  Raymond, 
sipping  his  burgundy,  "by  many  Taubes  and  Aviatiks 
armed  with  the  machine-gun  and  some  ordinary  bombs  of 
schrapnel, — also  a  dirigible  of  'Parsifal'  type  dropping  big 
bombs.  We  were  hampered  in  our  offensive  by  a  prejudice 
which  does  not  trouble  the  Germans.  To  throw  bombs 
upon  friend  and  foe  alike — that  is  not  our  idea  of  War.  It 
annoyed  me,  and  I  wasted  on  that  flatulent  brute  of  a 
'Parsifal'  all  my  remaining  flechettes  and  little  Morocco 
bombs.     Aha.,  the  coteletles  !'' 

A  waiter  set  them  before  him.  He  tucked  his  napkin 
under  his  chin,  and  helped  himself,  and  said: 

"Thus,  though  I  had  damaged  her  steering-gear  and 
riddled  her  outer  envelope,  and  the  Flying  Pig  wallowed 
in  difficulties  below  me,  I  could  not  pursue  the  advantage  I 
had  got.  When  the  pilot  of  an  Aviatik  launched  himself  to 
the  rescue,  all  the  ammunition  of  my  carabine  was  exhausted. 
I  had  one  cartridge  left  in  my  automatic  revolver,  and  not 
a  single  bomb  with  which  to  return  the  compliments  of  the 
German's  mitraillc.  My  petrol-tank  had  been  perforated. 
My  single  bullet  missed  him.  The  duel  was  too  unequal, 
so  I  withdrew  from  the  field,  leaving  him  to  cavalier  the 
Flying  Pig.  We  may  meet  again  upon  terms  more  equal, 
when  French  military  aviators  fight  with  machine-guns. 
And  now  to  business.  It  concerns  your  gyroscopic  stabili- 
ser, the  patent  of  which  my  Chiefs  desired  to  buy  for  the 
use  of  our  Service  Aeronautique.  You  demanded,  according 
to  M.  Jourdain's  statement,  £8,000  and  a  royalty  for  the 
world-patent.  We  will  buy  it  of  you  outright  for  £12,000. 
Is  it  agreed?" 

Sherbrand  straightened  in  his  chair,  and  said,  looking  the 
other  squarely  in  the  eyes: 


444  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

"No,  sir,  thank  yoti!  You  see,  though  the  War  Office 
wouldn't  have  anything  to  say  to  me " 

"It  occurs  to  you  that  now  you  may  find  a  market  for 
your  invention?"  To  the  devil  with  this  smug  young  British 
tradesman  !  thought  Raymond  behind  his  knitted  brows. 
"Come!"  he  said.  "Another  proposal.  Will  you  make 
and  supply  us  with  your  hawk-ho verer  ?  Or  sell  us  the  right 
to  manufacture  a  thousand  for  the  sole  use  of  the  S.  Ae.? 
Name  your  price — I  shall  not  be  frightened.  It  is  not 
State  money,  but  my  private  fortune  that  I  draw  upon — 
with  the  approval  of  my  Chiefs.  It  has  been  my  whim  to 
lavish  on  my  escadrille  what  other  men  hang  in  jewels  upon 
their  mistresses.  Efficiency  is  my  vice.  I  have  heard  of 
worse ! "  He  scrawled  some  invisible  figures  with  a  polished 
finger-nail  upon  the  tablecloth  and  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh 
and  a  shrug :  ' '  Sapristi !  At  even  a  hundred  pounds  apiece 
you  would  soon  be  a  millionaire,  even  without  the  fortune 
you  expect  from  your  War  Office!  Upon  occasion  it  pays 
to  be  a  patriot.  Decide,  Monsieur,  lest  my  patience  run 
dry  before  my  purse!" 

"  I've  not  asked  you  a  hundred,  sir, "  Sherbrand  said  with 
his  disarming  simplicity.  "  I  can  make  and  sell  the  hoverers 
at  a  profit  for  £60.  It's  the  cutting  and  welding  of  the  hori- 
zontal flanged  screws  with  the  acetylene  flame  that  eats 
up  that  money.  But  for  the  cost  of  the  process,  hang  it! — 
I'd  have  had  more  than  seventy  ready  by  me  now." 

"You  have  seventy,  you  say,  laid  by  in  readiness?" 

"  Laid  by  in  grease, "  said  Sherbrand,  "  at  the  aerodrome." 

"Waiting  the  moment  when  the  authorities  at  Whitehall 
awaken  to  the  fact  that  you  are  a  genius,  mon  ami !  A  la 
bonne  heure  !     We  buy  your  seventy  equilibrisers ! " 

"I'll  sell  you  ten,"  said  the  British  tradesman  doggedly. 
"And  I'll  give  the  Belgian  Government  another  ten,  if  you 
think  they'd  honour  me  by  accepting  them?" 

''Parole  d'honneur  !  I  can  guarantee  they  will.  And  of 
the  other  fifty?" 


News  of  Bawne  445 

"They  are  for  England  to  take  or  leave, "  said  Sherbrand. 
"  No  doubt  I'm  an  ass,  but  a  man  must  act  according  to  his 
lights." 

"They  are  stars,  your  lights,"  said  Raymond  with  a 
crackling  oath,  "and  they  point  the  path  of  Honour!"  He 
pulled  a  cheque-book  and  a  fountain-pen  from  a  pocket 
within  his  tunic  and  wrote  a  cheque  on  the  Credit  Lyonnais 
for  the  price  of  the  ten  stabilisers,  their  packing,  carriage 
and  duty,  saying  as  he  signed,  and  tossed  the  lilac  slip  of 
paper  across  the  tablecloth:  "Your  endorsement  is  my 
receipt.  For  the  stabilisers — they  must  be  sent  not  later 
than  to-morrow.  I  would  give  something  if  I  could  fly  back 
to  France  with  a  couple  in  my  valise.  But  patience!  In 
a  week  at  most  we  will  give  the  Germans  news  of  us.  Per- 
haps I  shall  have  the  good  fortune  of  a  rencontre  with 
my  Boche  pilot-aviator.  For — listen,  lieutenant!  He  too 
possessed  the  device  that  solves  for  the  avion  the  problem 
of  stability.  And — listen  well! — he  carried  a  young  boy 
with  him  in  the  nacelle.  It  was  the  man  who  robbed  you. 
Von  Herrnung!     Could  you  not  have  guessed  before? " 

It  seemed  to  Sherbrand  that  he  had  always  guessed. 
Ra}tnond  went  on: 

"When  I  read  of  the  finding  of  the  wreck  of  your  'Bird' 
in  the  North  Sea,  I  knew  what  coup  the  Prussian  and  his 
confederates  had  carried  out.  We  had  met  in  Berlin,  and  at 
the  Hanover  aerodrome,  and  at  Paris.  And — I  could  have 
shot  him  the  other  day  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  child. 
The  legions  of  the  modern  Attila  employ  women  and  babes 
as  bucklers  and  breastworks,  by  their  Emperor's  order. 
Perhaps  he  carried  the  boy  for  protection ! ' '  His  moustache 
bristled  like  an  angry  cat's  as  he  added: 

"A  beastly  idea,  but  the  German  Idea  is  bestial.  Well, 
au  'voir !  To-morrow,  six  demie,  we  start  from  the  aero- 
drome!" 

He  rose,  whisked  his  napkin  over  his  mouth,  and  said, 
giving  Sherbrand  a  hearty  hand-grip: 


446  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

"I  shall  be  punctual.  Do  not  forget.  My  compliments 
to  Mademoiselle ! " 

But  Sherbrand  was  occupied  less  by  thoughts  of  his  angry 
love  than  by  Raymond's  story  of  the  boy  in  the  German 
warplane.  He  telephoned  to  Sir  Roland  and  to  Saxham 
before  he  drove  back  to  the  Club  thinking: 

"Bawne! — It  must  be  Bawne! — out  there  in  the  midst  of 
all  those  horrors.  If  I  could  only  meet  that  fellow  von 
Herrnung!  .  .  .  I've  owed  him  no  grudge  because  he 
robbed  me.  .  .  .     But — for  this — I  could  kill  him  now!" 


CHAPTER  LVI 

LA  BRABANgONNE 

"You  saint,  Pat!"  Margot,  amidst  Raymond's  polite 
excuses,  had  recognised  Sherbrand's  hatchet-face  under  the 
khaki  cap.  "You've  stolen  a  whole  morning  for  me  from 
your  Flying  Man.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  he'd  come  back 
to  town?  How  perfectly  tophole  he  looks  in  tea-leaves! 
Franky  and  I  came  across  that  French  officer  who  was  with 
him,  last  June,  in  Paris.  We're  been  rubbing  noses  on  the 
strength  of  having  met  before.  Is  Alan  going  to  the  Front? 
My  poor  Pattums,  it'll  be  your  turn  to  be  haunted.  Here's 
Rhona  Helvellyn.  Cheer,  Rhona!  Do  tell  us  why  you 
look  so  smudgy  ?  Have  you  been  hiding  up  the  chimney  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  or  bombarding  a  Minister's  front 
door  with  coal?" 

She  beckoned,  and  Rhona  came  stalking  through  the 
crush  of  marvellously  got-up  members,  the  round,  fair, 
freckled  boy-face  that  topped  her  long  swan-neck  and 
deceptively  sloping  shoulders  pinched  with  weariness  under 
the  wreck  of  a  Heath  hat,  her  usually  immaculate  tailor- 
mades  covered  with  the  dust  of  what  might  have  been  a 
Claxton  Hall  conflict  or  a  Downing  Street  Demonstration, 
and  strange  fires  burning  in  her  light-lashed  eyes. 

"Am  I  such  a  sweep?  I  feel  one!  But  so'd  you  be 
grubby  if  you'd  done  the  crossing  from  Folkestone  to  Ostend 
and  back  again  to  London  without  a  dab  of  a  puff.  I'd  an 
appointment  here  at  three-thirty. "  Beyond  anything  in 
life  Rhona  plumed  herself  on  her  punctuality.  "Mrs. 
Saxham — the  Mrs.  Saxham,  had  promised  to  meet  me  in  the 
Chintz  Room."  The  Chintz  Room  is  the  first-floor  draw- 
ing-room securable  for  private  teas  and  interviews.     "We 

447 


4*48  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

got  in  too  ravenous  even  to  wash  for  lunch.  You  should 
have  seen  us  eat.  My  hat!  the  scrum  on  those  boats.  And 
the  dirt.  Nothing  but  a  Turkish  bath  will  get  me  clean 
again.  As  for  Brenda,  she's  a  nigger."  Thus  Rhona  in 
her  loud  young  accents.  "  Nobody 'd  believe  she'd  been 
born  a  white  girl!" 

"Is  she  here?" 

"My  Christmas!  I  should  rather  hope  so!  Upstairs 
scraping  off  the  top-crust  before  I  take  her  to  Eccleston 
Square.  Don't  do  to  startle  the  Mater.  She's  been 
frightfully  off-colour  with  worry  over  her  precious  ^^oungest. 
You  see,  Brenda  was  due  home  for  the  Autumn  holidays 
from  the  Convent  of  the  Dames  de  I'Annonciation  at 
Huin  on  the  Sambre,  when  the  War  broke  out.  And — 
Huin's  near  Charleroi,  where  they  say  the  Germans  are — 
and  we'd  nary  a  letter,  and  no  answer  to  a  hailstorm  of  wires 
from  the  Mater.  So  I  got  passes  and  permits  on  the  Q.  T. 
and  skipped  over  to  Ostend — to  see  what  might  be  done. " 

"And  you  got  through?" 

"Did  I?  Not  much!  We  don't  get  things  properly 
rubbed  into  us — tucked  away  in  our  blessed  old  island.  I 
forgot  that  Belgian  trains  wouldn't  be  running  from  Ostend 
to  Brussels,  now  the  Germans  have  got  a  grab  on  there. 
...  As  for  getting  South-East  by  Courtrai  and  Valencien- 
nes— all  trains  were  required  by  the  Allies  for  military  pur- 
poses. Perhaps  if  I'd  been  a  hefty  War  Correspondent  or 
an  Army  Nursing  Sister  or  a  V.A.D.  in  diamond  earrings 
and  a  Red  Cross  armlet,  I'd  have  had  a  chance.  But  I'm 
doubtful!  Transport  officers,  English  and  Belgian,  keep 
their  mouths  shut — and  once  they've  opened  them  to  say 
"  No ! "  they  never  open  'em  again.  And  " — Rhona  breathed 
as  though  she  had  been  running — "there  were  Official  War 
News  placards  stuck  up  at  the  Customs  Office,  and  on  the 
quays  and  at  the  Prefecture.  They  said  that  the  Germans 
under  von  Buelow  have  been  having  a  scrap  with  the  5th 
French  Army  on  the  Sambre — from  Namur  to  Charleroi — 


La  BrabaiK^onne  449 

and  that  the  French  have  been  beaten  back.  And  the 
hospitals  are  crowded  with  Belgian  and  German  wounded" — 
she  gulped  and  something  twinkled  on  her  pale  eyelashes — ■ 
"and  trains  crammed  with  more  keep  coming  in  and  in. 
I've  seen  some  sights,  I  tell  you,  that  gave  me  horrors. 
That  showed  me,  even  more  than  those  Ostend  quays  and 
wharves  and  squares  and  Places — packed  solid  with  refugees 
— Great  Christmas! — shall  I  ever  forget  'em  ! — the  devilish, 
hellish  work  of  War!" 

"Refugees.  .  .  .  Common  people?"  Margot  was  a 
little  puzzled.     Rhona  nodded  and  repeated: 

"Refugees.  Swells  and  mechanics,  rag-pickers  and  shop- 
keepers, sweeps,  schoolgirls,  lacemakers,  and  students. 
Professors,  priests,  and  prostitutes.  Madame  la  Comtesse 
and  her  gardener's  wife,  wheeling  the  babies  in  trams  and 
go-carts.  Dust-covered,  dirty,  done  up,  desperate,  with 
faces  that  make  you  think  of  the  damned  in  the  Tartarus 
scenes  of  Orpheus  and  Eurydice.  And  someone  squealed  my 
name,  and  there  was  Brenda.  Just  got  in,  with  three  of  the 
Sisters,  and  a  baker's  dozen  of  English  pupils  and  a  herd 
of  other  miserables,  evacuated  from  Charleroi  and  Huin. 
Three-and-a-half  days  on  the  journey,  travelling  by  fits 
and  starts  on  branchrlines — tramping  when  trains  weren't 
available.  Eating  whenever  anything  was  to  be  had,  and 
going  without  when  there  wasn't!  Sleeping  in  barns  and 
on  the  floors  of  railway-station  platforms,  or  waiting-rooms, 
when  they  were  lucky — such  a  pack  of  tramps  you  never 
saw  in  your  life.  But  Great  Scott!  how  thundering  glad  I 
was  to  get  hold  of  Brenda  and  whisk  her  away  from  that 
Chorus  of  the  Damned  in  Orpheus,  pent  up  like  cattle 
behind  ropes,  and  moaning  and  stretching  their  arms  out 
to  the  sea!" 

"Why  on  earth  the  sea?" 

A  foreign  voice,  resonant  and  rather  nasal,  startled  Alar- 
got  by  answering: 

"Pardon,  Madame.     Because  these  most  unhappy  fugi- 

39 


450  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

tives  believe  that  salvation  and  safety  may  be  found  in 
England,  from  whence  come  those  strong  brown  English 
soldiers  who  are  fighting  in  Belgium  now. " 

"Are  there — "  Margot  was  beginning.  But  Rhona  was 
introducing  the  speaker  at  length  as  Comte  d'Asnay,  Capi- 
taine  Commandant  and  Adjutant  of  the  Belgian  General 
Staff,  Attached  to  the  General  Staff  on  the  Third  Division 
of  the  Belgian  Army,  and  d'Asnay  was  saying  with  a  smile: 

"Mademoiselle  bestows  upon  me  all  my  titles,  possibly 
because  we  Belgians  have  so  little  else  left." 

"Except  Honour,"  snapped  Rhona. 

"Except  our  Honour  and  our  self-respect,  and  a  few  other 
non-negotiable  securities,"  he  said,  "that  do  not  bring  us 
much  of  credit  on  the  Bourses  of  Vienna  and  Berlin.  But 
Madame  was  asking  of  the  refugees.  Many  from  Liege 
have  escaped  to  Antwerp  or  into  Holland,  thousands  are 
rushing  from  Namur  into  the  bosom  of  France.  But  from 
Louvain  and  Brussels  and  Tirlemont  they  flock  to  Ostend. 
The  steamers  of  the  Channel  service  are  crowded  with  those 
who  have  money  and  can  obtain  the  necessary  laissez- 
passers.  Your  town  of  Folkestone  is  encumbered  with 
arrivals.  Were  stones  pillows  there  would  be  a  head  for 
every  stone.  But  those  who  have  neither  money  nor  pass- 
ports— and  many  of  these  were  rich  a  week  ago — remain,  as 
Mademoiselle  has  told  you,  to  weep,  and  stretch  their 
arms  towards  the  sea." 

" They'd  rush  the  boats, "  declared  Rhona,  "only  that  the 
Companies  keep  up  the  gangways.  I  suppose,"  sjie  grim- 
aced, "the  authorities  at  Ostend  don't  want  a  scare.  They 
believe — I  hope  they  may  get  it! — there'll  yet  be  an  Au- 
tumn Season.  Hang  these  profit-hoggers !  If  I'd  my  way 
I'd  lower  every  blessed  gangway  and  let  everyone  who 
wanted  walk  on  board.  If  Belgium  hadn't  faced  the  music 
there' d  be  Germans  in  England  now,  murdering  and  burn- 
ing. .  .  .  They've  a  right  to  come.  Let  'em  all  come! 
Britain's  big  enough,  I  should  hope!" 


La  Brabangonne  451 

"Brava,  Mademoiselle.  Bis!"  d'Asnay  applauded  noise- 
lessly. "That  is  what  you  said  to  me  on  the  deck  of  the 
steamer.  Say  it  again,  say  it  often,  and  the  people  will  be 
let  come ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I've  my  plan."  Rhona's  light  eyes  sparkled 
wickedly.  "  People  here  want  waking  up.  They're  kept  in 
cotton-wool.  Eyes  bunged  up  and  ears  stuffed.  What 
they  want  is — to  see  and  hear.  Well,  a  few  of  'em  are 
doing  it.  That,"  she  nodded  knowingly  at  d'Asnay,  "is 
v/here  my  Distinguished  Visitors  come  in. " 

The  lips  under  the  fiercely- waxed  moustaches  smiled. 
Margot  liked  the  look  of  this  officer  of  the  Belgian  General 
Staff,  with  the  savage  eyes  and  the  smooth  olive  skin,  the 
pointed  chestnut  beard,  fiercely- waxed  moustache,  and  the 
cool,  polite  manner.  He  wore  the  uniform  of  the  Belgian 
Chasseurs  a  Cheval,  and  the  vulture-plumes  of  his  high 
shako  were  cut  and  broken  and  scorched  in  places,  the  gold 
braiding  of  his  dark  blue  tunic  was  tarnished  and  weather- 
beaten,  and  the  grey,  blue-striped  overalls  and  spurred  black 
knee-boots  were  rusty  with  old  mud  and  white  with  new 
dust.  "You're  from  the  Front?"  she  queried,  as  she 
moved  with  Rhona  and  the  Belgian  towards  the  glass  swing- 
doors,  giving  access  from  the  vestibule  to  the  Club's  big 
ground-floor  drawing-room. 

He  answered: 

"There  are  several  Fronts — and  I  have  the  honour  to 
come  from  one  of  them,  Madame." 

"With  dispatches?" 

"Possibly  with  dispatches,  Madame!"  He  answered 
with  an  amused  side-glance  at  the  small,  vivacious  face. 
"Though  there  are  swifter  methods  of  transmitting  intelli- 
gence than  by  entrusting  letters  to  a  messenger's  hands. " 

As  he  moved  beside  her,  courteously  replying,  she  saw 
the  crimson  and  green  enamelled,  purple-ribboned  Cross  of 
the  Belgian  Order  of  Leopold  shining  upon  the  dark  blue 
tunic-breast. 


452  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

"How  are — things — getting  on?  Nobody  tells  us  any- 
thing," twittered  the  humming-bird.  "We  might  live  at 
the  North  Pole. " 

"Madame  might  find  even  at  the  North  Pole  compensa- 
tions for  the  low  temperature  and  the  lack  of  society.  "  The 
vulture-plumes  on  the  dark  blue  shako  nodded  as  he  turned 
his  face  to  her.  "In  the  fact  that  there  are  no  Boches 
there, "  he  added,  and  the  smile  that  had  curved  the  sol- 
dierly moustache  vanished  as  though  the  word  had  wiped  it 
from  his  mouth. 

"Do  tell  me  what  are  Boches?"  Margot  begged,  kin- 
dling to  interest.  He  answered  with  an  intensity  that 
dug  deep  lines  at  the  angles  of  his  nostrils,  and  puckered 
the  corners  of  the  eyes  that  burned  under  his  frowning 
brows : 

"They  are  a  nation  of  beings,  Madame,  that  are  no  longer 
men!" 

"Germans  you  mean,  don't  you?"  she  asked  after  a  little 
pause  of  bewilderment,  staring  with  shocked,  dilated  eyes  at 
the  left  side  of  d'Asnay's  close-cropped  head,  now  revealed 
to  her  as  he  removed  his  shako,  and  standing  a  little  in 
advance  of  the  two  women,  held  back  with  the  thrust  of  his 
broad  shoulders  a  leaf  of  the  drawing-room  swing-doors. 
The  four-inch  square  of  white  surgical  plaster  adhering  to  a 
place  whence  the  chestnut-brown  hair  had  been  shaven, 
showed  the  outline  of  a  deep,  jagged  gash.  "You  are  hurt ! 
You  have  had  some  awful  accident !  .  .  .  Was  it  a  motor- 
smash?  Doesn't  it  pain  you?"  Kittums  asked  breath- 
lessly. For  d'Asnay  had  touched  the  surgical  strapping 
with  his  gloved  hand,  and  his  smiling  face  had  winced. 

"  It  is  nothing,  Madame,"  he  assured  her,  "  and  it  was  not 
caused  by  an  accident.  It  is  merely  a  whiff  of  schrapnel — a 
love-gift  from  Messieurs  les  Boches." 

"You  are  wounded .? " 

"Madame,  that  is  what  one  calls  it,  when  one  suffers  d, 
coup  d'obus.     They  are  common,  these  little  tokens,  on  our 


La  Braban^onne  453 

side  of  the  North  Sea.  Mine  has  procured  me  a  visit  to 
London,  and  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you.  " 

She  looked  at  him  like  a  grieved  child,  and  her  lips  so 
quivered  that  he  softened  to  her  behind  the  crinkles  of  his 
smiling  bearded  mask. 

"You  speak  like  this  because  you  think  I  am  heartless  and 
indifferent.  Perhaps  I  have  been — until  to-day!  We  are 
so  far  from  things.  We  see  nothing.  And  we  hear  so  little 
about  the  War!" 

"Alas,  Madame!"  came  the  answer.  "Forgive  the  cruel 
prophec}^  that  the  moment  approaches  when  you  will  hear 
too  much ! ' ' 

The  swing-doors  thudded  behind  them  like  guns  at  a  great 
distance.  The  capacious  ground-floor  drawing-room,  not 
usually  crowded  before  luncheon,  was  thronged  nearly  to  the 
walls.  A  vacant  space  in  the  centre  presumably  accom- 
modated the  Distinguished  Visitors.  But  between  these 
and  Margot's  quickening  curiosity  intervened  a  solid  wall 
of  backs. 

The  Distinguished  Visitors  must  be  Royalties,  decided 
Margot,  as  she  skirted  the  barrier,  looking  right  and  left  for 
a  peephole,  recognising  the  vast  back  of  Sir  Thomas  Bray- 
ham,  the  skeleton  back  of  the  Goblin,  the  willowy  back  of 
Trixie  Wastwood,  the  backs  of  Lady  Beauvayse,  Cynthia 
Charterhouse,  Tota  Stannus,  and  Patrinc  Sa.xham  with 
other  backs  pertaining  to  divers  dear  friends,  consolidated 
into  the  rampart  of  humanity  over  which  the  towering 
feathers  of  Vanity  Fair  nodded  and  bobbed  and  waved. 

"They're  taking  it  in,"  Margot  heard  Rhona  mutter, 
behind  her.  "  'Somebody's  playing  off  a  joke  07i  us,'  would 
be  the  first  thing  that'd  come  into  their  blessed  heads. 
Well! — let  'em  think  what  they  choose.  Ask  me  why  I  did 
it,  Comte,  and  I  swear  I  couldn't  tell  you.  Blue  murder! 
how  my  arms  ache.  But  so  must  yours.  You  nursed  the 
biggest  of  the  babies  all  the  way  from  Ostend  to  Charing 
Cross." 


454  That  Which   Hath  Wines 


£>* 


"Mademoiselle  is  right!"  The  swift,  fierce  undertone 
was  d'Asnay's.  "They  do  not  comprehend  yet.  Not  yet ! " 
He  breathed  hissingly  through  his  nose.  "Wait— and 
presently  the  Truth  will  leap  at  them  and  strike  them  entre 
les  yeux.  But  a  place  must  be  found  for  the  friend  of 
Mademoiselle ! "  He  came  noiselessly  to  the  side  of  Margot. 
"A  chair,  so.  A  footstool,  so.  Madame  will  step  on  the 
one  and  mount  to  the  other.  Permit,  Madame,  that  I  offer 
my  assistance !  Now  Madame  commands  an  excellent  view 
of — shall  I  call  it— the  spectacle?" 

The  speaker's  voice  was  drowned  in  an  outburst  of  stri- 
dent music.  Barely  two  doors  from  the  Club  the  piano- 
organ  had  broken  out  with  "La  Barbangonne.  "  And  as  the 
walls  vibrated  to  its  shrill  cries  of  triumph,  and  the  wild 
disonances  of  a  joy  that  touches  frenzy,  the  cracked  but 
vigorous  tenor  began  to  sing: 

"Apres  des  sifecles,  des  siecles  d'esclavage 

Le  Beige  sortant  du  tombeau 
A  reconquis  par  son  courage 

Son  nom,  son  droit  et  son  drapeau, 
Et  ta  main  souveraine  et  fifere 

Peuple  desormais  indompte 
Grava  sur  ta  vielle  banniere 

Le  roi,  la  Loi,  la  Libert^!" 

"  Sapristi  !  It  is  strange  that ! "  d'Asnay  muttered  at  the 
first  bars.  "Mademoiselle  Helvellyn  devised  the  tableau, 
certainly,  but  who  arranged  the  entr'acte?" 

The  shrill,  unbearable  frenzy  of  the  piano-organ  abated, 
the  voice  of  the  singer  was  more  plainly  heard.  It  chanted 
in  thin  nasal  tones,  with  missed-out  notes  in  each  bar  that 
were  like  gaps  where  teeth  had  been  in  an  old  sorrowful 
singing  mouth : 

"O  Belgique,  O  mere  cherie, 

A  toi  nos  cceurs,  d  tot  nos  bras, 
A  toi  notre  sang,  0  Pairie " 


La  Braban(;onne  455 

While  Margot,  a-tiptoe  on  her  chair,  peered  through  the 
screen  of  towering  feathers  at  the  Club's  Distinguished 
Visitors, — wondering  that  within  the  wall  of  absorbed  faces 
there  should  be  so  little  to  attract  or  interest.  Nothing 
more  intriguing  than  the  homely  figure  of  a  Flemish  peas- 
ant woman,  with  four  young  children  huddled  round  her, 
and  a  baby  at  her  breast. 


CHAPTER  LVII 


THE    BELGIAN    WIFE 


Desolate  advance-guard  of  the  vast  army  so  soon  to 
invade  the  shores  of  Britain,  how  familiar  the  figure  is  now 
that  was  then  so  strange  to  us  in  the  quaint  old-world 
fashion  of  its  homely  garments,  the  thick  white  dust  and 
travel-stains  that  covered  it,  from  the  linen  coif  to  the 
wooden  shoes. 

She  was  not  old,  the  woman  who  sat  with  her  little  flock 
gathered  about  her,  on  the  Indian  stool  that  had  sup- 
ported the  superb  person  of  von  Herrnung,  what  time  he 
had  held  forth  to  Mrs.  Charterhouse  and  Lady  Wastwood 
upon  the  loftiness  of  German  Kultur,  the  perfection  of 
German  female  beauty,  and  the  overwhelming  mental 
and  bodily  superiority  of  the  German  Superman.  A 
Walloon  peasant  from  a  village  near  Jodoigne  where  she 
and  her  husband  had  worked  upon  a  tiny  farm. 

Perhaps  a  dozen  words  of  French  were  hers :  "  Tout  brule  !  " 
and  "En  Angleterre  oil  il  n'y  a  pas  de  Boches!" 

We  were  to  learn  to  reap  terrible  meanings  from  that 
hoarse,  faint  parrot-cry.  Truths  that  raised  the  hairs  upon 
the  flesh  and  chilled  the  blood  were  to  be  imaged  for  us  in 
the  blank  vacuity  of  her  unseeing  stare.  We  were  to  learn 
why  all  her  children  squinted,  from  Vic,  the  sturdy  man  of 
seven,  and  Josephine,  his  junior,  possibly  by  a  year,  down  to 
Georgette  of  the  chubby  cheeks  and  crinkly,  roguish  eyelids, 
and  Albert,  of  the  round  blue  stare,  the  big  white-haired 
head,  and  the  marvellous  bow  legs. 

In  their  dull  stunned  quietude  and  their  clayey  pallor, 
the  mark  of  the  Beast  was  branded  upon  them,  down  to  the 
livid  baby  in  its  little  cap  of  soiled  linen,  swaddled  in  the  old 

456 


The  Belgian  Wife  457 

red  shawl,  that  bound  down  its  arms.  You  might  have 
thought  it  dead,  but  for  the  flutter  of  a  muscle  in  the  cheek, 
and  the  faint  movement  of  its  lips,  feebly  sucking  at  the 
breast  that  had  been  large  and  bounteous,  and  now  was  lax, 
and  flabby,  covered  by  a  network  of  darkish  violet  veins. 

"Who  are  they  ?  .  .  .  What  are  they  ?  .  .  .  Where  do 
they  come  from  ?  .  .  .  Why  were  they  brought  here  ?  .  .  . 
Does  no  one  know?  .  .  .     Will  no  one  tell?  ..." 

The  silence  of  amazement  was  now  breaking.  The 
mouths  belonging  to  the  faces  under  the  nodding  feathers, 
old  and  young,  handsome  and  ugly,  vacuous  and  clever, 
silly  and  intellectual,  were  all  prattling  interrogations  like 
the  above.  Pride  of  Place  and  Joy  of  Life,  Thirst  of 
Pleasure,  Lust  of  Power,  Gaiety  and  Weariness,  Wisdom 
and  Folly,  Humbug  and  Sincerity,  Meanness  and  Gener- 
osity, ringed-in  the  dusty  group  of  wooden-shod  mysteries 
and  most  frightfully  wanted  to  know!  And  nobody 
offered  any  solution  of  the  puzzle.  The  piano-organ  was 
playing  half  a  dozen  doors  below  the  Club,  the  cracked  old 
tenor  quavering  to  its  accompaniment: 

"  Nous  le  jurons  tu  vivras  I 

Tu  vivras  toujour s  grande  cl  belle 
Et  ton  invincible  unite 

Aura  pour  devise  immortelle " 

The  music  suddenly  broke  off.  A  policeman  had  ordered 
the  organ  to  move  on.   .  .   . 

"Tout  brmS!" 

Hitherto  the  Belgian  woman  had  not  looked  up,  nor 
changed  her  listless  attitude.  Now  she  lifted  her  empty 
expressionless  eyes,  and  hoarsely  iterated  her  parrot-cry. 
The  suckling  at  her  breast  whimpered  and  let  go  the  nipple. 
She  glanced  at  it,  saying  in  her  own  thick  Flemish  tongue: 

"  Daar  is  geen  melk.  "' 

'"There  is  no  milk," 


458  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

She  rocked  the  baby  for  whom  she  had  no  milk.  Its 
feeble  whimper  was  not  stilled.  She  went  on  to  that 
accompaniment : 

"  De  Duischer  kwamen.  Zy  hebben  alles  gebrandl  De 
geburen, — mijn  vader — mijn  man  is  gedood!  Zy  hebben  hem 
in  het  vuur  geworpen  !"^ 

The  baby's  whimper  became  a  wail  of  feeble  protest.  It 
fought  and  struggled  frantically  under  the  old  red  swathing 
shawl.  The  shawl  loosened,  slid  to  the  floor,  'and  the 
wizened  arms  rose  free  and  jerking.  One  arm,  tightly 
bandaged  below  the  elbow,  ended  in  a  raw  and  bloody 
stump.  vShe  regarded  it  with  her  drained-out  stare,  not 
trying  to  replace  the  strappings  that  had  bound  it,  saying 
in  the  heavy  voice  of  a  sleep-walker: 

"Dees  ook  hebben  ze  gedaan.     God  sta  ons  bij !"^ 

And  sobs  and  weeping  broke  out  around  her,  as  though 
that  little  handless  arm  had  been  a  veritable  rod  of  Moses 
bringing  water  from  the  living  rock.  But  no  sigh  lifted  her 
bosom,  nor  were  her  dry  eyelids  moistened  with  the  dew  of 
tears.  Prussian  militarism  had  wrought  its  work  upon  her. 
She  and  hers  had  been  trodden  as  grapes  in  the  Hohenzollem 
winepress.  Those  emptied  eyes  had  seen  things  done  that 
might  well  make  devils  laugh  in  Hell. 

The  Club  walls  vanished  away  as  we  looked,  and  behind 
that  stricken  figure  spread  the  devastated  plains  of  Belgium, 
the  Sorrowful,  the  Glorious,  who  has  endured  agony  and 
shame  unutterable,  that  her  neighbours  might  go  free.  We 
had  a  vision  of  the  Son  of  Man  descending  in  a  blood-red, 
rainy  dawning,  and  heard  Him  saying  to  the  apostles  of 
German  Kultur: 

•  "The  Germans  came.  They  burned  everything.  The  neighbours, 
and  my  father,  and  my  husband  are  dead.  They  threw  them  into  the 
fire." 

»" This  too  they  did.        od  help  us!" 


The  Belgian  Wife  459 

"Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  least  of  these  .  .  . 
ye  have  done  it  unto  Me  /  " 

And  not  a  woman  among  us  who  had  a  man  with  the 
British  Expedition,  btit  prayed  in  her  soul,  fervently: 

"Vengeance  is  Thine,  for  Thou  hast  said  it.  But  make 
him  Thy  scourge,  O  Lord!" 


CHAPTER  LVIII 

SHERBRAND  BUYS  THE  LICENCE 

The  spell  of  silence  was  broken.  Excitement  seethed  as 
Patrine  escaped  out  of  the  crush  in  the  drawing-room  and 
returned  to  the  vestibule.  There,  subsiding  into  one  of  the 
tall-backed  chairs  beside  the  table  that  held  the  Members' 
Register  and  Visitors'  Book,  she  waited,  hoping  against  hope 
that  the  tall  figure  in  khaki  might  reappear  under  the  Club 
portico. 

"Patrine!" 

"Oh,  Alan ! — you  came  back  after  all ! " 

Her  gloom  changed  to  radiancy.  She  rose  up  as  the  tall 
figure  of  Sherbrand  passed  under  the  portico,  and  hurried  to 
him,  emptying  her  budget  of  regrets.  "I've  behaved  like 
a  cad.  Do  forgive  me!  Don't  be  wrathy.  But  you  can't 
be — or  you'd  never  have  come  back. " 

"You  dear,  it's  all  right!"  He  caught  the  outstretched 
hands  in  both  his  and  wrung  them.  "Forget — and  let's  be 
happy. "  The  truth  about  Bawne  tugged  at  him  as  he  said 
the  words,  but  he  had  determined  not  to  torture  her  with 
that  horror.  He  went  on,  with  the  frankness  that  she  found 
so  lovable,  "  I  was  vexed,  but  it  was  idiotic  of  me  not  to  have 
told  you  about  the  Commission  before." 

"And  the  man.  Your  French  sossifer, "  she  went  on, 
"who  looked  at  me  as  though  I  ought  to  live  in  a  cage  at  the 
Zoo?  What  must  he  have  thought  of  your  taste  in  young 
women?  What  mustn't  he  have  said  when  he  got  you  out 
of  the  way?" 

"Oh,  not  much!" 

"Goon.     Rub  it  in!" 

"Well  then" — Sherbrand's  mouth  was  steady,  but  the 

460 


Sherbrand  Buys  the  Licence  461 

laughter  in  his  eyes  was  not  to  be  controlled — "  he  saw  I  was 
fearfully  sick  at  your  having  shown  temper  before  him. 
And  he  told  me  not  to  be  chagrined  because  a  handsome 
woman  had  made  me  a  little  drama." 

"F'ff!"  vShe  winced  and  set  her  teeth  on  her  crimson 
underlip.  "  He  knew  I'd  ask  and  you'd  tell  me.  He  saw  me 
— squirming — in  his  mind's  eye.  Oh!  and  how  he's  hit  me 
off.  For  I  was  awfully  like  the  heavy  leading  lady  of  a  tin 
travelling  theatre-company.  Aren't  you  ashamed  of  me? 
Don't  you  loathe  me?"  she  wooed  with  entreating  eyes. 

"Frightfully.  Tell  me — where  can  we  have  a  cosy  talk 
together?  I've  got  a  whole  hour  before  I'm  due  at  Hen- 
don,  "  he  said. 

"The  Rose-and-Green  Divan — but  there  are  sure  to  be 
people  smoking  there.  Oh! — I  know.  The  Little  Library. 
Nobody  ever  goes  in,  and  it's  got  a  door  opening  into  the 
Divan.  Friends  of  Members  aren't  admitted  into  the 
Library — but  if  you're  caught  there — you  say  you  were 
coming  out  of  the  Divan,  where  outsiders  are  allowed — and 
opened  the  wrong  door — do  you  switch  on?" 

He  nodded,  repressing  the  desire  to  ask  in  whose  com- 
pany she  had  been  caught  there,  and  followed  the  tall  lithe 
figure  down  a  short  corridor  leading  to  the  back  of  the 
ground-floor.  The  corridor  ended  in  the  Little  Library,  a 
studious  apartment  of  bathing-machine  dimensions,  walled 
with  curiously  new-appearing  books  of  information  and 
reference,  and  containing  two  small  writing-tables,  each 
supported  by  a  rosewood-stained  Windsor,  a  brace  of  bas- 
kets, and  two  deep,  cushiony,  Rothmore  chairs.  A  Member 
of  mature  years  and  mountainous  proportions  slept  placidly 
in  one  of  these,  with  Whitakcr's  Peerage  balanced  at  a  peril- 
ous angle  on  the  vanishing  indications  of  what  must  once 
have  been  her  lap.  The  subdued  murmur  of  voices  trickled 
in  from  the  adjoining  smoking-room  with  vaporous  wisps 
of  Turkish  and  Virginia.  Save  for  the  stout  slumbering 
Member  the  lovers  were  beautifully  alone. 


462  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

"Good!  Oh,  boy! — to  have  got  you  back  again," 
Patrine  said  breathlessly  after  their  kiss.  She  dropped 
down  noiselessly  into  the  springy  embraces  of  the  vacant 
Rothmore,  and  Sherbrand  smiling,  perched  upon  the  chair's 
broad  arm. 

"This  is  an  unbecoming  contrast — isn't  it?"  She  leaned 
her  beech-leaf  tinted  head  against  the  plastron  of  the  khaki 
tunic  as  his  strong  hand  crept  behind  her  supple  waist. 
"But  I  don't  care,  I  can't  think  of  anything  but  you,  Alan. 
When  do  you  start  to-morrow,  and  from  where?  I  suppose 
you  mustn't  tell  me?"  She  sighed,  rubbing  her  cheek 
against  him  as  the  strong  arm  embraced  and  held  her.  "  Oh 
me !  What  it  is  to  be  the  sweetheart  of  a  soldier.  Why — 
Alan!" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him,  frowning,  and  her 
long  eyes  were  black  between  the  narrowed  lids.  "  Do  you 
know  how  your  heart  jumped  when  I  said  'soldier'?  Does 
it  mean  as  much  to  you  as  all  that?" 

He  began  to  stammer  a  little. 

"Oh — well! — you  see — we  Sherbrands  have  worn  the 
King's  coat  for  ages.  Ever  since  there  were  any  Sherbrands 
— going  by  the  portraits  in  the  gallery  at  Whins — where  my 
father  lived  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  used  to  describe  them 
to  me  until  I  knew  them  as  well  as  he  did  from  the  Sir  i\lan 
who  fought  with  Talbot  against  the  French  at  Castillan 
Chatillon  as  a  boy,  and  got  killed  at  Bannockburn  thirty- 
five  years  later,  down  to  the  jolly  old  Sir  Roger,  who  fought 
like  a  Trojan  at  Badajoz.  He  was  my  great-grandfather,  so 
I  suppose  I've  always  had  a  secret  hankering  for  the  Service. 
Like  the  inherited  nostalgia  Hillmen's  children  have  for  the 
mountains,  or  sailors'  for  the  sea.  The  kind  of  feeling 
that  sets  the  little  Arctic  foxes  in  the  Zoo  howling  at  the  first 
sprinkle  of  snow  in  December.  Only  I  knew  I  mustn't 
yield  to  it.     You  know  the  reason  why!" 

"You  told  me,  and  I  answered  that  that  kind  of  reason 
couldn't  affect  you. " 


I 


Shcrbrand  Buys  the  Licence  463 

"Now  you  shall  hear  a  plan  I've  been  nursing."  His 
arm  again  engirdled  her.  "  Do  you  know  Seasheere  ?  It's 
a  little  grassy,  cliffy,  shingly  village  on  the  South-East 
coast,  three-hours'  journey  from  Charing  Cross.  There's 
a  Naval  Air  Station  there  that  was  a  Seaplane  School  not 
long  ago.  We  used  to  send  'em  pupils  from  Hendon: 
there's  a  cottage  where  they  take  lodgers  not  far  off.  I 
spent  three  weeks  there  last  stunmer,  fishing  and  motor- 
boating  when  I  wasn't  making  friends  with  Goody  Two 
Shoes 

"Who's  Goody  Two  Shoes?" 

"The  hydroplane!"  His  voice  broke  in  laughter.  "Did 
you  think  I  meant  a  girl?" 

"I'm  an  idiot.     Go  on  about  your  plan,  dear." 

"Oh — well!  The  cottage  I  stayed  at  was  jolly  comfort- 
able, and  the  landlady  the  tidiest  old  woman  that  ever 
grilled  a  chop.  Now  suppose — to-morrow,  or  a  week,  or 
two  months  hence  you  got  a  wire  from  Somewhere  in 
France  or  Belgium  saying:  'Seasheere — such-a-day-and-such- 
an-hotir — Alan' — would  you  pack  your  kit  for  a  week-end 
and  hop  into  the  train,  and  come?" 

"Without  asking — without  telling — Aunt  Lynette  or 
Uncle  Owen?"     She  asked  the  question  breathlessly. 

"We'll  tell  the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Saxham  directly  after- 
wards. "  He  leaned  his  cheek  on  the  beech-leaf  hair  and  his 
arm  tightened  about  her  waist  possessively.  "You  said  my 
heart  jumped  just  now  when  you  called  me  a  soldier.  How 
it  will  jump  when  I  pick  you  out  with  the  glasses,  a  tiny 
black  speck  on  the  cliffs  at  Seasheere,  waiting  with  the  sun- 
set behind  you,  or  the  dawn  in  your  eyes  to  welcome  me 
back  from  over  the  sea.  Oh,  my  girl!" — his  voice  wooed 
her  irresistibly — "I've  dreamed  wide  awake  of  the  joy  of 
such  a  greeting.  .  .  .  It's  up  to  you  to  make  my  dream 
come  true!"  He  kissed  her  hair.  "And  we'll  watch  the 
day  die,  and  sup  together,  and  you'll  sleep  at  my  nice  old 
woman's  cottage.     And  I'll  turn  in  at  the  Air  Station — and 


464  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

next  morning  we'll  be  married  at  Seasheere  Catholic 
Church!" 

"  Married — that's  your  plan?  Ah,  Alan!  shall  we  ever  be 
married?"  she  sighed. 

He  laughed  softly,  pressmg  her  against  him. 

"The  little  Catholic  Church  I've  mentioned  was  built  for 
the  very  purpose.  Perched  on  the  cliffs  as  though  it  might 
spread  its  rafters  any  minute  and  flap  away  to  sea."  He 
kissed  her  hair  again.  "Don't  think  I'm  spinning  fairy- 
tales. I've  got  a  Special  Licence,  so  there's  no  need  to 
bother  about  time,  or  previous  residence  in  the  district,  or 
anything  stuffy.  Nothing's  wanted  but  Opportunity,  the 
church,  and  the  priest.  And  that  the  local  Registrar  should 
put  in  an  appearance.  That's  necessary,  as  we're  not  of 
the  same  faith — yet!" 

She  freed  herself  from  his  embrace,  rose  to  her  superb 
height,  and  stood  over  him. 

"You've  arranged  all  this — without  consulting  me  for  a 


^t)"- 


minute.  You  and  your  landlady — and  your  Licence  and 
your  Registrar!  Boy,  I  am  sensible  of  a  great  desire  to  box 
your  ears  soundly  for  this!" 

"I'd  rather  take  a  clout  from  you  than  a  kiss  from  any 
other  woman. " 

She  tapped  him  lightly  on  both  ears,  and  said,  putting 
a  butterfly  touch  of  lips  in  the  middle  of  the  broad, 
tanned  brow: 

"There  are  both  clout  and  kiss.  Now  show  me  the 
Special  Licence. " 

He  thrust  his  hand  into  a  pocket  behind  the  plastron  of 
the  khaki  tunic  and  pulled  out  a  note-case  she  had  bought 
and  given  him.  The  shiny  square  of  parchment-paper 
bearing  the  signature  of  his  Grace  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury drew  both  their  heads  together  over  it.  In  a  com- 
partment meant  for  stamps  was  a  hard,  thin,  metallic  circle, 
shining  yellow  through  tissue  paper  folds. 
The — Ring?"  she  whispered. 


11 1 


Sherbrand  Buys  the  Licence  465 

"The  Ring!"  He  nodded,  smiling,  as  she  bent  her  face 
over  it,  kissed  the  tissue  paper  reverently,  stuck  the  Licence 
back  in  its  compartment,  and  gave  him  back  the  case. 

"And  you  had  these  in  your  pocket  this  afternoon  when 
I  was  such  a  horrid  beast  to  you?" 

"They  were  burning  a  hole  right  into  my  chest.  Why, 
Pat,  you're — crying!" 

She  half  turned  away,  mopping  her  wet  eyes  with  her 
flimsy  little  handkerchief. 

"Because — because — it's  so  blessedly  sweet  and  dear  of 
you  to  have  planned  this.  Do  you — do  you  really  want  it 
so  much  ? ' ' 

"More  than  anything  under  the  sky,"  said  Sherbrand. 
"And,  don't  you  see,  it  settles  the  question  of  providing  for 
you,  splendidly!  If  we're  married,  and  I  get — pipped — 
Somewhere  at  the  Front — "  He  stopped  short,  for  one  of 
her  large  hands  firmly  covered  his  mouth. 

"I  won't  have  it.  You're  not  to  speak  like  that,  ever!" 
said  a  muffled  voice  above  his  head.  "If  you  were  killed — 
don't  you  understand — everything'd  be  over  for  me!  It's 
a  kind  of  nasty  little  Death — only  to  have  you  hint  at  it. " 

"All  right ! "  he  mumbled  penitently,  and  kissed  the  hand. 
It  was  withdrawn,  and  he  went  on: 

"I  have  my  little  fortune,  though  Flying  has  made  a  hole 
in  it.  And  I'd  naturally  like — as  my  mother  is  provided  for 
— the  stuff  to  go  to  my  wife.  " 

"Oh!  if  I  only  were — good  enough,  I  wovild  be  your  wife 
to-morrow!"  she  groaned. 

He  got  up  and  took  her  masterfully  in  his  arms. 

"No  more  of  that.  I  can't  stick  being  made  out  a — 
bally  pattern.     You  are  a  hundred  times  too  good  for  me!" 

"But  not  at  all  patriotic, "  came  drifting  back  upon  him  in 

the  voice  of  Raymond.     His  embrace  never  slackened,  but 

he  asked  of  her  a  question,  looking  for  the  answer  to  lighten 

in  her  eyes:  "Pat — you've  not  said  yet  that  you're  glad 

they've   given  me  my  Flying   Commission! — that   you're 
30 


466  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

British  enough  to  give  your  man,  if  it  came  to  giving — for 
the  Old  Shop!  I  know  you  are! — of  course  you  are! — but 
say  it — I'd  Hke  to  hear  you." 

"I — I "  She  caught  her  breath  and  her  eyes  wav- 
ered miserably  under  his  steady  gaze.  "I'm  not  a  little  bit 
o'  good  at  telling  decent  proper  lies.  I  love  England — but 
I  love  you  heaps,  heaps,  heaps  best!"  He  felt  her  pant 
between  his  arms.  .  .  .  She  writhed  her  long  white  neck 
like  a  creature  in  desperate  agony.  "  I  want  to  eat  my  cake 
and  have  it!"  she  wailed,  evading  his  eyes.  "Now  you 
know  me,  you'll  despise  me.  But  it's  the  truth — anyway! 
I'd  like  a  man  to  send  to  the  War — and  a  man  to  keep  for 
myself!" 

His  arms  wrapped  her  closely  and  his  heart  plunged 
madly  against  her  bosom.  He  kissed  her  on  her  yielded 
mouth,  and  the  kiss  was  a  living  flame. 

" That  will  be  when  we  are  married  and  you  have  a  son!" 
he  whispered,  and  a  drowning  horror  enveloped  her.  She 
cried  out  and  thrust  him  back,  and  might  have  sunk  down 
at  his  feet  and  told  her  dreadful  story  then.   .   .    . 

Whitaker's  Peerage  intervened,  sliding  from  the  lap  of 
the  obese,  reposeful  Member,  and  falling  to  the  carpet  with 
a  resounding  thump.  The  indignant  eyes  of  the  awakened 
lady  glared  at  Sherbrand  over  her  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 
She  demanded,  snorting: 

"Since  when  has  this  room — hr'runk! — been  thrown 
open  to  visitors?" 

"I'll  inquire,"  Sherbrand  stammered,  and  the  guilty 
couple  fled.  That  night  Patrine  wrote  on  a  card  "Sea- 
sheere,"  and  thenceafter  wore  it  in  her  bosom.  But  many 
weeks  were  over  her  head  before  the  Call  came. 


CHAPTER  LIX 


THE    WOE-WAVE    BREAKS 


Meanwhile  everybody  who  could  get  near  the  Belgian 
refugees  excitedly  pressed  hospitality  upon  them.  .  .  .  The 
desolate  mother  was  termed  "  Poor  Dear"  in  a  dozen  differ- 
ent keys  of  sympathy.  But  she  only  looked  with  dull  vague 
eyes  in  the  faces  of  would-be  philanthropists.  When 
kindly  hands  tried  to  draw  the  little  ones  away,  she  grabbed 
them  and  held  on. 

"She  doesn't  understand  us,  the  Poor  Dear  Creature!" 
Thus  the  Goblin,  gulping  within  her  rows  of  pearls,  red-eyed 
under  her  towering  osprey  panache.  "What  she  has 
suffered!  It  shatters  one  to  realise.  Can  one  credit  that 
dear  Count  Tido  could  have  belonged  to  such  a  race?  Miss 
Helvellyn  claims  her  by  right  of  discovery,  I  believe,  so 
farewell  to  my  plans  for  her  benefit!  But  Belgians,  I 
understand,  are  to  be  had  in  any  quantity,  and  Belgians  I 
must  and  will  have!  Think  of  those  rows  and  rows  of  new 
cottages  standing  empty  at  Wathe  Regis,  and  that  huge 
caravanserai  that  nobody  can  live  in  at  the  corner  of  Russell 
Square!  Do  yoti  hear  me,  Sir  Thomas?  Oh,  how  clever 
of  you,  Lady  Eliason!  Sir  Thomas,  listen!  Lady  Eliason 
positively  promises  that  Sir  Solomon  shall  interest  himself  in 
this.  Of  course  there  must  be  a  Fund,  and  a  Committee, 
and  a  Headquarters!  The  Fund  must  be  Huge,  the  Com- 
mittee Representative.  .  .  .  Dear  Lady  Beauvayse  is  to 
be  our  Hon.  Secretary.  .  .  .  With  your  legal  knowledge 
and  influence,  and  your  passion  for  philanthropy.  Sir 
Thomas,  don't  tell  me  You  are  going  to  keep  out  of  this! 
You  are  damned  if  you  do !  did  you  say ?  Bless  you!  Who 
are  these  queer  people  coming  in?" 

467 


468  That   Which   Hath  Wings 

Two  nuns  in  the  familiar  habit  worn  by  Roman  Catholic 
Sisters  of  Charity,  little  black-robed  figures  with  starched 
white  coifs,  broad  white  guimpes  and  flowing  black  veils, 
had  passed  the  Club  windows  a  moment  previously.  A  tall, 
slight  woman  in  Quaker  grey  had  seen  and  hurried  in  pursuit 
of  the  Sisters,  recognised  as  members  of  a  Belgian  Com- 
munity, to  whom  Mrs.Saxham  explained  the  situation, speak- 
ing in  her  exquisite  French.  The  Sisters  replied  in  a  less 
polished  accent,  their  discreet  eyes  ignoring  curious  glances 
as  their  guide  ushered  them  into  the  crowded  drawing-room. 

The  crowd  parted  before  them,  revealing  Rachel  and  her 
children.  The  nuns  moved  forwards  and  stood  within  the 
radius  of  those  heavy,  vacant  eyes.  Life  leaped  into  them. 
She  cried  out  in  her  thick  Flemish  tongue  and  was  answered, 
and  rose  up,  the  children  clinging  to  her.  In  a  moment  the 
Sisters  had  advanced  upon  her,  taken  the  baby  from  the 
cramped  arms  that  now  resigned  it,  taken  the  mother  also 
into  a  pair  of  black-sleeved  arms.  And  she  was  weeping  on 
the  bosom  of  Charity,  and  telling  them  the  dreadful  story 
that  is  told  anew  every  day.  Presently  she  and  Vic, 
Josephine,  Georgette,  and  Albert  the  big-headed,  were  eating 
cake  and  drinking  coffee  under  the  sheltering  wing  of  the 
Sisters,  but  though  some  elderly  Members  still  hovered  in 
their  neighbourhood,  the  question  of  a  Fund  and  a  Com- 
mittee had  usurped  the  attention  of  the  Club. 

Lady  Eliason  and  Lady  Wathe  were  selecting  a  Quorum. 
.  .  .  Rhona  Helvellyn  had  proposed  to  Lynette  an  adjourn- 
ment to  the  Chintz  Room.  They  had  reached  the  swing- 
doors  of  the  drawing-room,  when  with  violence  they  banged 
open  to  admit  Brenda  Helvellyn  in  the  maddest  spirits, 
escorted  by  Doda  Foltlebarre  and  Sissi  Eliason  and  half  a 
dozen  of  the  wilder,  younger  members  of  the  Club. 

Said  Rhona,  barring  her  junior's  way  with  a  long  thin 
arm  as  Brenda  rollicked  past  her: 

"Mrs.  Saxham,  let  me  introduce  my  sister  Brenda. 
Brenda  admires  you  frightfully!" 


The  Woe-Wave  Breaks  4^9 

Brenda,  staring  with  wide  bright  eyes  at  the  object  of  her 
alleged  admiration,  offered  a  pink,  moist,  recently  washed 
hand  to  Lynette.  At  Rhona's  indignant  exclamation  she 
started  and  pulled  away  the  hand,  stammering: 

"They  wouldn't  let  me!  .  .  ." 

"Wouldn't  let  you  change  into  decent  clothes  when  I'd 
'phoned  Home  to  have  some  sent  here?     Tell  me  another!" 

"Well,  then,  the  things  hadn't  come!" 

"And  if  they  haven't,  why  not  have  stayed  upstairs  until 
they  do  come?" 

"All  alone.  ...  Oh!  I  couldn't!  Anything  awful 
might  happen  up  there.  ..."  The  peach-face  of  sixteen 
winced  and  the  eyebrows  puckered.  "And  Doda  and  Sissi 
simply  love  me  in  these  things.  They  said  I  must  come 
down  and  be  seen!" 

Doda  and  Sissi  and  the  guilty  six  exchanged  rapturous 
winks  and  grimaces.  Certainly  a  damsel  of  sixteen,  whose 
superb  crimson  tresses  are  crowned  with  the  squashed  n.tin 
of  a  muslin  "Trouville"  hat,  and  whose  slender  form  is 
draped  in  the  wilted  wraith  of  a  light  green  aquascutum,  is 
more  than  likely  to  create  a  sucdsfou,  on  her  appearance  in 
a  London  drawing-room. 

"'Seen!'"  Rhona  snorted.  "Well,  you  are  a  sight, 
there's  no  denying.  From  your  head  to  your  feet —  My 
merry  Christmas!  what  have  you  got  on  your  feet?" 

Brenda  tittered  nervously,  poking  out  a  slim  foot  in  a 
huge  golosh  lined  with  wearied  red  flannel. 

"They're  the  Mere  Econome's.  There  wasn't  time  to 
dress  properly.  We  were  turned  out  of  the  Convent, 
haven't  I  told  you! — just  as  we  stood.  It  was  early  in  the 
morning.  Seven  o'clock  Mass  was  just  over.  We  were 
trooping  in  to  the  Refect oire  for  coffee.  We  went  to  Mass 
and  did  our  lessons,  in  spite  of  the  awful  guns.  Then  .  .  . 
all  at  once — "  She  began  to  laugh,  and  a  mask  of  fine 
glittering  dew  broke  out  over  her  peachy  face  from  the 
temples  to  the  upper  lip.     "The  earth  began  to  shake. 


470  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

The  French  were  retreating  from  Charleroi.  They  streamed 
past  and  past,  horsemen  and  guns  and  marching  men,  just 
as  they'd  gone  by  two  days  before  when  we  waved  and 
cheered  them  from  the  garden.  Only  this  time  there  were 
wounded  men.  .  .  .  The  ambulance  waggons  were  heaped 
with  them— all  bloody  and  dreadful.  ...  Oh!  And  then 
the  shells  began  to  fall  .  .  .  among  the  waggons  and  on  the 
Convent!  "The  Germans  are  coming, "  the  soldiers  called 
to  us.     'Fly  while  you  have  time ! '" 

"Shut  up!"  Rhona  ordered  the  girl.  "Haven't  I  told 
you  not  to  talk,  you  stoopid!  There  weren't  any  shells- 
it's  all  your  silly  nerves.  There  might  have  been— but 
there  weren't!" 

"  But  the  shells  were  hitting  the  Convent  walls  .  .  .  and 
bursting.  The  house  was  on  fire.  And  the  French  Com- 
mandant said  to  the  Maitresse  Generale:  '  It  will  be  rase  over 
your  heads  if  you  remain,  Aladame.  On  ti'y  fait  qnartier 
a  per  Sonne — les  Allemands  I  They  are  advancing  in  incredi- 
ble numbers.  The  road  to  Calais  lies  open  before  them 
because  of  the  Great  Catastrophe  of  yesterday.  Our  hearts 
are  sad,  not  only  for  our  own  losses,  but  for  the  misfortunes 
of  our  friends  across  the '" 

"Will  you  be  silent !     He  never  said  so  1 " 

With  her  scarlet  head  surmounting  the  shiny  waterproof, 
Brenda  rather  reminded  one  of  a  Green  Hackle,  the  likeness 
to  the  splendid  gauze-winged  fly  being  increased  by  the 
brightness  of  her  eyes.  Very  round,  very  wide  open,  and 
with  strange  lines  radiating  from  the  pin-point  speck  of 
pupil  to  the  outer  band  ringing  the  hazel  irids,  they  stared 
from  that  crystal-beaded  mask  of  hers.  "But,  Rhona," 
she  reiterated,  bewildered  by  her  senior's  vehemence  of 
contradiction,  "he  did  say  so !  And  the  Convent  was  burn- 
ing when  we  left!" 

"If  it  was,  you're  to  forget  it — d'you  hear  me?  And 
look  here,  if  you  dare  to  talk  like  this  at  home " 

"I  won't.     I  know  the  Mater  mustn't  be  upset!     Look 


The  Woe-Wave  Breaks  471 

here,  I'll  swear  I  won't,  if  that'll  do!  Only  don't  say  I've 
got  to  stop  upstairs,  will  you?  They're  so  gay  here," 
Brenda  pleaded  humbly — "it'll  help  mc  to  forget!" 

"All  right!"  and  with  a  warning  scowl  from  Rhona  the 
sisters  parted.  Lynette  Saxham  asked,  looking  after  the 
little  bizarre  figure  of  Brenda  with  wistful  tenderness  in  her 
eyes: 

"Will  she  recover  from  the  shock  of  the  horrors  she  has 
seen  the  more  quickly  because  you  forbid  her  to  speak  of 
them?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  I  haven't  thought.  .  .  .  It's  my 
mother  I  bother  most  about.  .  .  .  You  see,  Roddy's 
Battery — Roddy's  my  brother — has  gone  with  the  Expedi- 
tion. If  Brenda  talks  rawhead  and  bloody-bones — but 
I'll  take  care  she  don't,  the  little  fool!" 

The  eyes  of  both  women  followed  the  funny  little  figure. 
Lynette  said  as  it  was  absorbed  in  a  crowd  of  laughing 
friends : 

"Would  you  prefer  that  we  finished  our  talk  here?"  She 
glanced  at  the  settee  in  a  glass-screened  angle  near  the  fire- 
place, and  Rhona  assented  with  evident  relief.  Her  Chiefs 
of  the  W.S.S.S.,  she  explained,  were  anxious  that  Mrs.  Sax- 
ham  should  consent  to  speak  at  the  Royal  Hall  Mass  Meet- 
ing of  Protest  Against  the  Delay  of  Parliament  in  passing 
the  Woman  Suffrage  Bill.  The  Meeting  was  fixed  for  the 
middle  of  October.  Mrs.  Saxham's  sympathy  with  the 
Movement  was  to  be  gathered  from  her  writings.  A 
personal  expression  would  be  valued  by  the  W.S.S.S. 

"I  am  in  sympathy  to  the  extent  of  joining  in  any  form 
of  protest  or  any  description  of  organised  Demonstration 
that  is  not  characterised  by  violence,  "  said  Lynette.  "To 
brawl  at  public  meetings  "—Rhona  wondered  whether  she 
had  heard  of  her  own  baulked  attempt  to  heckle  the  Bishops 
at  the  Guildhall  Banquet?— "to  assault  public  personages 
and  damage  private  or  public  property  is  not  the  method 
by  which  the  Franchise  will  be  gained.     To  make  war  upon 


472  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

men  is  not  the  way,  I  think,  to  win  their  suffrages  for  women. 
But  I  will  gladly  speak  at  the  Meeting,  please  be  kind 
enough  to  tell  the  Chiefs. " 

"It's  awfully  sporting  of  you — when  you've  been  in  such 
trouble.  It  must  have  been  quite  too  awful,"  bungled 
Rhona,  "about  your  boy!" 

"About  my  boy!  ..."  Lj'-nette  caught  her  breath  and 
nipped  her  lower  lip  between  her  teeth  to  keep  back  the 
cry  that  else  must  have  escaped  her.  "You  are  kind.  .  .  . 
You  will  be  infinitely  kinder  if  you  say  no  more!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  frightfully  clumsy!"  apolo- 
gised Rhona.  "Roddy — my  brother  who's  at  the  Front — 
once  told  me  that  I  had  the  tact  of  a  steam-cultivator  and 
the  discretion  of  a  runaway  motor-bus.  "  She  added:  "I'm 
afraid  you  think  I  was  rough  on  Brenda.  But  the  Mater's 
heart-trouble  keeps  us  all  on  tenterhooks,  and  for  her  sake — 
no  matter  what  horrors  are  hinted  or  whispered — nothing 
shall  make  me  believe — anything  but  the  Best,  until  the 
Worst  is  brought  to  my  door!  You  understand,  don't 
you?  .  .  .     What's  that?     Young  Brenda " 

A  gust  of  laughter  drew  the  eyes  of  both  women  to  the 
Green  Hackle,  who,  surrounded  by  an  appreciative  circle, 
including  Margot  and  Trixie  Wastwood,  Cynthia  Charter- 
house, Doda  and  Sissi,  was  performing  the  maddest  pas  seul 
that  ever  held  the  floor.  One  huge  golosh  flew  off,  shaving 
a  gilt-and-crystal  electrolier  as  she  finished  with  a  daring 
high  kick,  and  dropped  down  breathless  and  panting 
between  Margot  and  Cynthia  Charterhouse. 

"You  crazy  child!"  cooed  Mrs.  Charterhouse,  patting  one 
of  the  pink  hands. 

"  I  feel  crazy ! "  gurgled  Brenda,  while  Doda  picked  up  her 
battered  Trouville  hat  and  Sissi  retrieved  hairpins  scattered 
over  the  Club  carpet.  "Oh,  my  stars!  You  don't  know, 
you'll  none  of  you  ever  guess  what  it  is  to  me  to  find  you  all 
so  gay!"  She  bounced  on  the  springy  seat  until  her  red 
locks  tossed  like  the  mane  of  a  Shetland  pony.     "Now  I 


The  Woe-Wave  Breaks  473 

really  can  believe — really! — that  the  whole  thing's  been  a 
bad  dream !  Like  you  get  when  Sisters  have  been  too  busy 
to  boil  the  potatoes  soft,  or  take  the  cores  out  of  the  stewed 
apples."  She  turned  her  head  and  the  sparkling  mask  of 
tiny  beads  broke  out  again  over  her  flushed  face.  "Who  are 
those  Sceiirs  de  Chariie?''  she  asked,  for  the  circle  of  elderly 
Members  had  melted  away  and  the  two  Religious  were  now 
going,  taking  with  them  the  Belgian  mother  and  her  children, 
to  whom — of  course  at  the  Club's  expense — they  were  to 
afford  a  temporary  home.  ' '  What  are  they  here  for  ?  Why, 
that's  the  woman  who  came  with  us  on  the  boat  from  Ostend ! 
Ah,  my  God! — it's  all  true!  I  can't  tell  lies  any  more!  Do 
you  hear,  Rhona?"  and  the  bizarre  little  figure  leaped  up 
and  stood  before  them,  defiant  and  panting.  "Not  even 
for  you  and  Mother!"  The  voice  broke  in  a  wail.  "Oh! 
how  can  you  bear  to  see  everyone  so  gay  when  the  Guards 
and  Gunners  have  been  killed  at  Mons?  Seven  thousand 
lying  dead,  the  French  Commandant  told  us.     Thousands 

taken  prisoners — and  we  sit  laughing  here " 

^Lynette  Saxham  caught  the  little  body  as  it  doubled  on 
itself  and  dropped  like  a  shot  rabbit.  She  carried  it  to  one 
of  the  settees,  and  knelt  by  it,  loosening  the  clothes,  working 
with  swift  and  motherly  hands. 

The  piano-organ  had  come  back,  or  another  like  it, — and 
was  jolting  out  the  popular  pseudo-pathetic  strains  of 
"Good-bye,  Little  Girl,  Good-bye!"  The  swing-doors  had 
thudded  behind  the  nuns  and  their  charges.  Lady  Wathe 
was  just  saying  to  Lady  Eliason: 

"Then  you,  dear,  will  personally  apply  to  the  Foreign 
Office  and  the  Home  Office  and, the  Belgian  Ambassador 
and  the  County  Council.  Pray  count  on  me  for  all  the  rest ! 
Sir  Solomon  is  a  Tower  of  Strength!  You  agree  with  me, 
don't  you,  Sir  Thomas  ?  Mercy  on  us !  What  a  commotion  I 
Who  has  had  a  telegram  from  the  Front?  Who  says  the 
Guards  and  Gunners  have  been  annihilated  ?  Who  says  the 
British  Expedition  has  been  overwhelmed  by  numbers  and 


474  That   Which   Hath  Wings 

forced  to  Retreat?     Will  nobody  stop  that  horrible  organ? 
Will  nobody  answer  me?" 

It  was  the  tragic  crowning  of  that  day  of  trivial  happen- 
ings that  the  Iron  Curtain  that  had  baffled  us  so  persistently 
should  rise  to  the  tune  of  a  music-hall  ballad  at  the  touch  of 
a  schoolgirl's  hand.  Long  before  the  huge  funeral  broad- 
sheets broke  out  in  the  gutters  of  Fleet  Street,  the  Strand, 
Pall  Mall,  and  Piccadilly,  screaming  of  the  Retirement  of 
THE  French  Forces  from  Namur  and  Chari.eroi,  Dis- 
aster TO  the  British  Expeditionary  Army,  Decimation 
of  Famous  Regiments,  and  the  Retreat  from  Mons, 
the  Tidal  Wave  of  Mourning  that  was  to  sweep  the  United 
Kingdom  from  end  to  end  had  crashed  down  upon  the 
Club. 

Ah!  how  one  had  underrated  them,  those  dead  men  who, 
living,  had  seemed  to  hold  themselves  so  lightly.  Who, 
submitting  to  be  outclassed  in  Sport  even  while  holding  it 
the  thing  best  worth  living  for,  had  smilingly  accepted  those 
hateful  records  of  1912-1913. 

Theirs  is  a  glorious  record  now.  Above  the  huge  Roll  that 
is  wreathed  with  bloodstained  laurels,  droop  the  Flags  of  the 
Allied  Nations,  their  heavy  folds  all  gemmed  with  bitter 
tears.  Each  nightfall  finds  the  endless  Roll  grown  longer. 
Each  day-dawn  sees  the  Hope  of  noble  houses,  the  pride  and 
stay  of  homes  gentle  and  simple  swallowed  up  in  the  abyss 
that  is  never  glutted!  How  long,  O  Lord?  we  cry,  yet 
comes  no  nearer  the  End  for  which  the  smallest  children 
pray. 

And  the  women.  ...  In  the  Book  of  the  Prophet  Eze- 
kiel  we  read  of  a  valley  of  dry  bones  over  which  the  Spirit  of 
the  Creator  breathed.  When  that  Wind  from  Heaven 
stirred  them,  the  dead  white  bones  put  on  Life  and  rose  up. 
A  change  as  miraculous  has  been  wrought  in  Woman  since 
the  Black  Deluge  left  a  deposit  of  new-made  widows  and 


The  Woe-Wave  Breaks  475 

mourning  mothers,  red-eyed  sisters  and  silent  wan-faced 
sweethearts,  sitting  about  the  little  tables  where  the  empty 
places  showed  as  awful  gaps. 

The  bereaved  did  not  shed  many  tears.  Their  grief  was 
too  deep  to  be  emotional,  their  newly-awakened  spirit  too 
lofty  for  complaint.  Their  pride  in  their  dead  men  was  their 
upholding.  Their  bleeding  hearts  they  only  showed  to 
GOD.  Before  then,  He  was  for  many  of  us  non-existent: 
for  many  more  a  remote,  passively  observant  Personality 
but  tepidly  interested  in  the  affairs  of  the  human  race. 
Would  these  have  learned  to  know  Him,  think  you,  if  there 
had  been  no  War? 

And  those  whom  every  newspaper  unfolded,  every  knock 
at  the  door  might  smite  with  dire  intelligence,  right  bravely 
they  bore  themselves  through  that  fortnight-long,  hideous 
pipe-dream  of  the  Long  Retreat  South.  For  many  of  these 
the  torture  of  suspense  was  to  give  place  to  cruel  certainty, 
after  that  unforgettable  Sunday  of  the  Sixth  September, 
when  at  a  distance  of  twelve  kilometres  from  Paris  the  retire- 
ment of  the  Allied  Armies  suddenly  changed  to  an  Advance, 
and  the  columns  of  German  Guard  Uhlans  in  hot  pursuit  of 
the  British  Force,  were  routed  by  Generals  Gough  and 
Chetwode  with  our  3rd  and  5th  Cavalry  Brigades.  For 
many,  many  others,  the  strain  has  never  since  slackened. 
They  lie  o'  nights  as  they  lay  through  those  nights  of  Sep- 
tember, 1914,  and  feel  the  bed  shaking,  and  the  floors  and 
walls  vibrating,  as  the  outer  rings  of  vast  concussions  spread 
to  them  through  the  troubled  ocean  of  atmosphere.  And  in 
the  mornings  they  will  tell  you  calmly: 

"Oh,  yes.  He  is  alive,  but  where  he  is  there  is  terrible 
fighting.     I  heard  the  guns. "  .  .  . 

No  arguments  of  people  whose  sons  or  husbands  are  not 
with  the  Army  in  Belgium,  or  France,  Italy,  or  Palestine, 
will  convince  them  that  they  do  not  hear  the  guns.  Or 
that,  borne  upon  the  waves  of  a  subtler  medium  than  air  are 
not  conveyed  to  them  finer,  more  mysterious  vibrations. 


476  That  Which    Hath  Wings 

Thoughts  that  meet  thoughts.     Mental  appeals— demands 
entreaties.  .  .  .     The  hands  of  their  souls,  reaching  out 
through  the  dark  hours,  clasp  those  of  other  souls  in  greet- 
ings and  farewells. 


CHAPTER  LX 

kultur! 

The  Belgian  village-town  had  been  so  sorely  knocked  about 
that  the  names  of  its  faubourgs,  boulevards,  and  thorough- 
fares were  obliterated.  Hence,  one  is  fain  to  substitute 
others,  such  as  the  Street  Where  The  Naked  Body  Of  The 
Little  Girl  Hung  Up  On  Hooks  In  the  Butcher's  "Window, 
the  Passage  Of  The  Three  Dead  British  Soldiers  With  Slit 
Noses  And  Pounded  Feet, — The  Square  Of  The  Forty  Blind- 
folded Civilian  Corpses,  and  the  Place  Of  The  Church  Of 
The  Cure  They  Crucified  For  Warning  The  British  By 
Ringing  The  Bells.  Of  this  sacred  edifice — Romanesque 
and  dating  from  the  tenth  century — little  remained  beyond 
the  crypt  and  the  stump  of  the  tower.  Some  calcined  and 
twisted  bones,  a  scorched  rag  of  a  cassock,  represented  M. 
le  Cure,  that  faithful  shepherd  of  souls.  Of  M.  le  Curb's 
flock,  not  one  remained  to  tell  the  story  of  the  tragic  episode 
that  had  reared  the  grim  pile  of  blackening  corpses  in  the 
Market  Square,  and  added  seven  hundred  homeless  refugees 
to  the  rivers  of  human  wretchedness  ceaselessly  rolling 
South. 

In  the  bright  sunshine  of  the  fme  October  morning  that 
had  followed  a  night  of  rain  and  thunder,  the  grimly-altered 
shadows  of  shell-torn  buildings  lay  black  on  the  ripped-up 
pavements  and  shrapnel-pocked  walls.  A  sandy-white  cat 
lapped  gratefully  at  a  puddle,  a  dishevelled  fowl  pecked 
between  the  cobblestones,  a  pigeon  or  two  preened  on  the 
broken  ridge-tiles.  To  the  eye  of  a  skilled  observer  hovering 
hawk-like  in  the  hot  blue  heavens,  raking  the  streets  through 
high-powered  Zeiss  binoculars,  nothing  human  remained 
alive  in  this  Aceldama,     Yet  when  the  two-seated  bomb- 

477 


478  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

carrying  Taube  with  the  big  man  and  the  small  boy  in  it 
had  banked  and  climbed,  and  hummed  away  Southwards  on 
its  aerial  mission  of  ruin  and  destruction,  one  British  officer, 
sorely  wounded,  lay  in  what  had  been  the  ground-floor 
living-room  of  a  well-to-do  baker's  shop. 

A  Captain  of  a  Guards  infantry  battalion  belonging  to  a 
Brigade  of  the  First  Division  of  the  First  Army  Corps. 
Marching,  counter-marching,  digging,  and  fighting  rear- 
guard actions  had  kept  the  Brigade's  hands  full  during  those 
blazing  days  and  drenching  nights  of  August  and  Septem- 
ber, whilst  the  battered  Divisions  that  had  borne  the  brunt 
of  the  huge  German  offensive,  reduced  to  one-twentieth  of 
their  effective,  had  hurried  Southwards,  leaving  a  trail  of 
blood. 

"Those  other  beggars  have  had  all  the  luck ! "  the  Brigade 
had  growled  when  it  had  any  time  for  growling.  But  it  had 
won  shining  honours  at  the  Marne,  and  had  been  heavily 
engaged  at  the  Aisne,  losing  many  of  its  men  and  officers. 
In  the  Aisne  battle,  particularly,  the  man  we  are  concerned 
with  had  won  special  mention  in  Dispatches  for  a  deed  of 
great  gallantry.  Three  days  previously,  an  order  from 
General  Headquarters  had  moved  his  battalion  on  the  little 
village  town. 

Their  R.F.A.  Battery  had  been  posted  a  quarter-mile 
distant,  commanding  the  north-east  and  east  where  the 
Germans  were  known  to  be.  Machine-guns  were  placed  at 
the  principal  road-ends  debouching  on  the  west  where  the 
Germans  might  be:  the  main  streets  had  been  barricaded 
with  transport- waggons  and  motor-lorries,  all  the  Maxims 
left  had  been  hidden  behind  the  sand-bagged  windows  of  a 
factory — a  gaunt,  brick  sky-scraper,  long  a  thorn  to  the 
beauty-loving  eye  of  M .  le  Cure — the  walls  of  houses  ending 
streets  leading  to  the  country  had  been  loopholed  for  musk- 
etry, and  a  howitzer  from  the  battery  and  a  machine-gun 


Kultur !  479 

had  been  spared  to  protect  the  bridge  south  of  the  town, 
a  Httle  place  resting  in  the  elbow  of  a  small  babbling  river. 
Watches  and  patrols  had  been  set  and  pickets  placed,  and 
then  these  war-worn  Britons  had  dispersed  into  billets,  or 
gone  into  barracks,  too  weary  to  eat,  craving  only  for  sleep. 
.  .  .  That  big  mound  of  blackened  ruins  near  the  railway 
station,  left  intact  for  strategic  purposes  by  the  enemy,  now 
stood  for  the  barracks — just  as  that  calcined  heap  of  ma- 
sonry, and  tvv^isted  iron  girders  at  the  town's  north  angle 
now  represented  the  hospital.  Both  had  blazed,  two  huge, 
unquenchable,  incendiary-shell-kindled  pyres,  to  light  the 
retreat  of  the  battalion  south. 

Secure  on  those  points  of  menace,  north-east,  east,  and 
west,  the  exhausted  battalion  had  slept  like  dead  men.  The 
townspeople,  relieved  in  mind  by  the  presence  of  so  many 
English  soldiers,  slept  like  Flemings — very  nearly  the  same 
thing.  The  Burgomaster  slept;  M.  le  Maire  followed  his 
example.  M.  le  Docteur  and  M.  I'Avocat  slumbered  pro- 
foundly too.  Only  M.  le  Curd,  being  restless  for  some 
reason  or  other,  resolved  to  spend  the  night  on  the  church- 
tower  in  the  company  of  his  breviary,  an  electric  reading- 
lamp,  a  bottle  of  strong  coffee,  and  a  battered  but  excellent 
night-glass,  the  property  of  his  late  maternal  uncle,  an 
Admiral  of  the  French  Navy. 

Four  hours  they  had  slept,  when  a  furious  clangour  from 
the  church  bells  awakened  the  sleepers.  Shrill  whistles 
screamed,  bugles  were  sounded.  Staff  officers  and  com- 
pany commanders  clattered  out  of  their  quarters — the 
battalion  jumped  like  one  man  to  its  feet.  Voices  talked 
over  the  wires  of  the  field-telephones.  An  artillery  patrol- 
leader  had  ridden  into  the  advance  of  a  column  of  heavy 
motor-lorries  approaching  the  bridge  that  crossed  the  river, 
carrying  the  highway  that  had  brought  the  battalion  from 
the  south.  Lorries  heavy-laden  with — French  infantry! — 
for  an  outpost's  flashlight  on  the  advance  had  revealed  the 


480  That  Which    Hath  Wings 

Allies'  uniform.  Well,  what  of  it!  French  troops  were  in 
the  east  upon  the  Yser.  But  still  the  crazy  church-bells 
jangled  and  clanged  and  pealed,  shrieking: 

"Reveillez-vous,  Messieurs  les  Anglais!  Vous 
^TES    SuRPRiT,   les   Allemands    soxt   ici  !    Reveillez- 

VOUS!      AUXARMES!      AuXARJklES!" 

And  another  broad  arrow  of  dazzling  blue-white  light 
showed  motor-lorries  packed  with  spiked  helmets  and  green- 
grey  tunics,  behind  the  kepis  topping  men  in  blue  coats  and 
red  breeches.  The  gunners  of  the  howitzer,  spared  for  the 
point  commanding  the  road  south  of  the  bridge,  were  picked 
off  by  German  sharpshooters  before  they  could  fire.  The 
officer  with  the  machine-gun  was  bayoneted  and  the  gun 
itself  seized.  Revolvers  cracked  and  spat  incessantly, 
bayonets  plunged  through  the  darkness  into  grunting 
bodies.  Britons  and  Boches  strove  in  a  melee  of  whirling 
rifle-butts  and  pounding  fists.  And  by  the  light  of  star- 
shell,  shrapnel,  and  machine-gun-fire  from  the  other  side 
of  the  river  began  to  play  indiscriminately  on  the  assailants 
and  the  assailed.  Under  cover  of  this  fire,  the  Germans 
would  have  rushed  the  bridge,  but  for  the  Factory  stuffed 
with  machine-guns,  pumping  lead  from  its  windows,  and  the 
howitzer — Oh !  bully  for  the  howitzer !  thought  the  wounded 
man. 

His  company  had  been  entrenched  as  a  reserve  near  the 
bridge  in  the  mouth  of  a  faubourg  running  westwards. 
They  had  doubled  out  to  support  the  bridge-party  in  the 
moment  of  alarm.  He  had  been  shot  then  in  the  right  arm 
and  had  gone  on  using  his  revolver  with  the  left  hand.  It 
was  not  until  some  well-timed  shrapnel  from  the  R.F.A. 
battery  north-east  of  the  town  began  to  burst  among  the 
green-grey  uniforms,  and  the  Kaisermen  took  to  their 
motor-lorries  and  went  off,  carrying  their  wounded  and  leav- 
ing many  dead — that  Franky  had  been  sensible  of  any  pain. 


Kultur!  481 

"You've  been  pipped,  old  man,"  had  said  the  com- 
mander of  the  bridge-company,  mopping  a  smudged  and 
perspiring  visage  with  a  handkerchief  that  shrieked  for  the 
wash. 

"By  the  Great  Brass  Hat!  so  I  have,  but  I'd  forgotten 
all  about  it,"  said  Franky,  surveying  the  carnage  in  the 
golden  sunlight  of  the  newly-minted  day.  "Look  at  these 
fellows  in  French  uniforms.  It's  an  insult  to  the  Allies  to 
bury  'em  like  that.  Couldn't  we  take  off  the  blue  coats 
and  red  baggies  before  we  stow  'em  underground?  And  the 
prisoners.  What  beauties!  Whining  'Kamerad!'  to  our 
chaps,  and  putting  their  hands  up  for  mercy.  Do  they 
suppose " 

The  speaker  ceased,  for  the  brother-officer  who  had  com- 
manded the  bridge-company  was  absorbed  in  looking 
through  his  binoculars  at  a  silvery  speck  in  the  western 
heavens.  It  grew  into  a  British  R.F.C.  scouting  biplane, 
that  came  droning  overhead  at  4,000,  circled,  fired  a  white 
rocket  for  attention,  dived  nearer,  circled  again,  and 
dropped  a  scrawled  message  in  a  leaded  clip-bag. 

^'Enemy-column — infantry  with  motor-lorries  and  two  guns 
crossing  river — bridge  a  mile  to  the  West  of  you — hurrying 
hell-for-leather  North.  Dropped  them  two  bombs.  Bigger 
column  advancing  from  North  voith  more  motor-lorries  and 
howitzers.  Look  out  for  squalls  that  direction.  Roads  to 
South  all  clear. " 

"Those  crossing  the  bridge  to  west  of  us  will  be  the  gentle- 
men who  came  round  that  way  to  leave  their  cards!"  said 
the  Lieutenant-Colonel  Commanding  as  the  biplane  sang 
itself  away.  "  Probably  a  column  detached  for  the  surprise 
from  the  bigger  force  to  the  north.  Well,  we  seem  to  have 
fmished  top-dog.  Let's  hope  they  won't  tackle  us  again 
until  the  men  have  had  their  r-offee.      'Phone  the  Brigadier 

at  Zillc !     And  '  wireless '  the  news  of  the  scrimmage  to  the 
31 


482  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

Divisional  Commander  at  Baix  and  Marwics  thirty  miles 
south  of  us,  and  get  a  message  through  to  Sir  Kenneth" — 
he  named  the  General  Officer  Commanding  the  A.C.  to 
which  the  Brigade  belonged.  "And  give  details  to  the 
G.H.Q.  at  St.  0.,  don't  forget!  Not  that  we'll  get  much 
credit  over  this."  The  Colonel  scowled,  surveying  from  the 
sandbagged  window  of  Headquarters,  situate  in  the  Factory, 
the  long  lines  of  stretchers  being  trotted  off  by  the  R.A.M. 
C.  bearers  to  the  town  Hospital.  He  rubbed  his  finger 
under  the  bristles  of  his  close-clipped  moustache  with  a 
rasping  sound  that  conveyed  his  irritation  as  he  went  on: 
"That's  the  worst  of  these  rotten  little  Advance-guard 
actions!  They're  expensive,  infernally  expensive.  The 
casualties  are  heavy  and  the  credit  nil. " 

"Possibly,  sir,  but  at  any  rate  we've  wiped  out  a  lot 
of  these  Boche  beggars,"  said  the  Battery  Commander, 
optimistically.  "Halloa!  Bird  over!  And  it's  a  Boche 
plane!" 

A  two-seated  Taube,  shining  silver  in  the  morning  sun- 
shine, had  come  out  of  the  golden  mists  to  northward,  rolling 
up  the  landscape  under  its  steel  belly  with  wonderful 
steady  swiftness.  At  some  3,000  above  the  town,  it  hovered, 
making  a  queer  buzzing  noise. 

"I've  heard  that  song  before,"  said  the  Adjutant,  his 
eyes  glued  to  his  binoculars.  "You  remember,  sir,  at 
Fegny?" 

"The  spotter  our  fellows  christened  the  Buzzard.  At  his 
old  smoke-signalling  tactics."  The  Colonel  snatched  the 
Field-telephone,  spoke,  and  from  a  gaping  skylight  at  the 
top  of  the  tall,  square,  many-windowed  Factory  an  extrava- 
gantly-tilted Maxim  began  to  pump  lead  skywards  in  a 
glittering  fan-shaped  stream.  "Queer  effect,  uncommonly! 
Looks  as  if  it  were  raining  upside  down.  .  .  .  Gad! — I 
believe  that  hit  him!"  he  added,  as  a  small  dark  object  fell 
from  the  Hunnish  monoplane.  But  it  was  only  the  inevi- 
table miniature  parachute  with  the  smoke-rocket  attached 


Kultur !  483 

to  it  belching  gouts  of  black  vapour.  The  Buzzard  ceased 
buzzing,  banked,  and  climbed  gracefully  out  of  view. 

And  then,  with  a  leaping  of  green-white  tongues  of  flame 
away  in  the  north,  beyond  a  long  sunlit  stretch  of  level 
country  fringed  with  poplars  and  streaked  with  canals,  and 
patched  with  brown  cornfields  and  golden-tinted  woods 
and  apple-laden  orchards,  and  dotted  with  little  towns  and 
villages,  the  heavy  German  field-guns  and  11.2-inch  Krupp 
howitzers  began  to  shower  shrapnel  and  big  steel  shells  of 
High  Explosive  upon  the  devoted  little  town. 

The  Kaisermen  had  got  the  range  from  their  spotter. 
Half  of  the  single  Field  battery  of  i8-pounder  quick-firers 
were  put  out  of  action  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  The  little 
town  became  a  storm-centre,  canopied  by  soot-black  smoke, 
stabbed  by  the  fierce  blue  glares  of  the  shell-bursts.  The 
houses  were  toppling.  The  ruins  were  blazing.  The  gaso- 
meter near  the  station  was  hit  and  blew  up  with  a  fearful 
explosion.  The  streets  were  full  of  shrieking,  stampeding, 
dying  townspeople  and  children.  "  Save  us!  Take  us  with 
you ! "  they  screamed  to  the  Englishmen.  For  the  Divisional 
Commander  at  Baix  and  Marwics  had  telegraphed  "Retire," 
and  the  battalion  was  preparing  to  evacuate  the  town. 

A  great  shell  wrecked  the  Factory,  killed  the  Adjutant 
and  many  of  the  machine-gunners,  and  slightly  wounded 
the  CO.  The  Romanesque  church-tower,  whose  bells  had 
shrieked  alarm  in  the  little  hours  of  the  morning,  rocked, 
staggered,  and  collapsed  over  its  famous  chime. 

Again,  men  had  melted  as  you  laid  your  hands  on  them, 
blown  into  crimson  rags  as  their  mouths  opened  shouting  to 
you.  It  had  been  Hell,  Franky  remembered,  sheer,  abso- 
lute, unvarnished  Hell.  The  Battalion  Surgeon-Major  had 
been  dressing  his  wounded  arm  in  the  open  street  when  the 
Death-blizzard  had  broken  upon  them.  A  lump  of  shrapnel 
hit  Franky  in  the  ribs  on  the  right  side  and  some  R.A.M.C. 
bearers  carried  him,  vomiting  blood,  into  the  baker's  shop. 
Possibly  they  were  killed — for  a  shell  hit  and  burst,  and 


484  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

wrecked  the  house  in  the  instant  of  their  leaving  it — and 
they  never  came  back  again.  Their  charge,  in  his  helpless- 
ness, had  escaped  death  by  a  narrow  shave.  The  plank 
flooring  of  the  upper  room,  dropping  from  the  broken  joist 
at  the  fireplace  end,  had  formed  a  penthouse  over  him — 
lying  on  the  blood-soaked  stretcher  on  the  tiled  flooring — 
— shielding  him  from  the  avalanche  of  household  furniture, 
glass  and  crockery,  descending  from  overhead. 

Thus  he  had  lain,  partially  unconscious,  when  what  was 
left  of  the  battalion  marched  out  of  the  town.  Most  of  the 
population  followed  on  the  blistered  heels  of  the  British 
soldiers,  helping  to  carr}^  the  stretchers  of  the  wounded  and 
crippled  men  who  under  that  blizzard  of  fiery  Death  had 
been  got  out  of  the  burning  Hospital.  Not  all  had  been 
got  out.  Franky,  l3dng  bloody  and  smothered  with  plaster,' 
and  helpless  under  the  penthouse  of  planking  that  had  saved 
him,  had  heard  the  screams  of  these — such  pitiftil,  heart- 
rending screams. 

Then  the  bombardment  had  stopped,  and  the  mere  relief 
from  that  intolerable  torture  of  outrageous  sound  was 
Heaven.  The  screams  from  the  burning  Hospital  had 
ceased,  but  when  the  earth  had  shaken  with  the  approach 
of  a  great  host,  and  German  cavalry  in  green-grey  uniforms 
with  covered  helmets  had  ridden  through  the  ravaged 
streets,  and  the  tottering  walls  had  trembled  at  the  passage 
of  colossal  motor-tractors  dragging  11.2-inch  Krupps  and 
carrying  huge  loads  of  German  gimners,  engineers,  and  infan- 
try— ^and  German  voices  had  shouted  harshly  up  and  down 
the  streets — and  German  heads  were  thrust  from  open 
windows — and  the  work  of  Pillage,  so  dear  to  the  German 
heart,  was  being  carried  out  with  German  thoroughness — 
the  screaming  had  begun  again. — Cries  of  women  and 
children,  shouts  of  men;  pleas,  expostulations,  prayers  for 
mercy  in  French  or  Flemish,  brutal  laughter,  German  oaths, 
threats,  and  orders;  subsequently,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
'  'Deutschland,  Deutschland,  uberAlles' ' — the  popping  of  corks 


Kultur !  485 

and  the  breaking  of  glasses — Hochs  for  Kaiser  and  Kron- 
prinz,  fierce  disputes  over  the  divison  of  booty,  more  shrieks 
of  women  and  girls.  ...  To  the  funeral  adagio  of 
picks  and  mattocks  upon  the  cobblestones  of  the  Market 
Square.  A  volley  then,  and  shots  and  more  shots.  .  .  . 
Subsequently  Private  of  Infantry,  Max  Schlatter,  made 
these  scrawled  entries  in  his  note-book;  testifying  to 
the  Sadism  prevailing  among  the  troops  of  the  Attila  of 
To-day: 

"October — 111,  1914.  Great  day  of  loot  and  plunder! 
We  shelled  the  cowardly  English — a  whole  Army  Corps  with 

a  brigade  of  heavy  A  rtillery — out  of  the  village  of  H .    The 

Hospital,  Barracks,  Church,  and  many  houses  destroyed  by  our 
gtms.  The  Mayor,  the  Burgomaster,  and  the  Registrar  shot 
for  harbouring  our  enemies.  The  priest  tied  up  to  his  church- 
door,  tortured,  and  then  burnt,  for  ringing  the  bells  to  warn  the 
English  of  our  approach.  Lieutenant  Rossberg  had  a  little  girl 
butchered  like  a  pigling,  afid  pounded  the  feet  of  some  lame 
English  soldiers  we  found  hiding,  to  teach  the  swine  how  to 
dance.  They  too  were  shot.  Decidedly  the  Lieutenant  is  a 
fun?iy  fellow.  All  the  people  who  had  not  run  away  brought 
out  of  their  houses  and  shot.  They  filled  the  air  with  their 
lamentations.  After  a  grand  gorge  and  a  big  swill,  we  now  all 
drunk  and  slept  on  the  pavements  by  the  light  of  a  magnificent 
silvery  moon.  Burned  more  houses,  and  continued  the  march 
next  day  with  a  hellishly  bad  head. " 

"How  long  before  they  find  mc  out?"  Franky  had 
wondered.  But  the  plaster-whitened  brown  boots  sticking 
stiffly  out  under  the  penthouse  of  broken  flooring  must  have 
looked  as  though  they  clothed  the  rigid  feet  of  a  dead  man. 
"  Presently  they  will  come ! "  he  had  promised  himself.  But 
though  they  had  sacked  the  baker's  shop  and  visited  the 
other  rooms  in  the  dwelling,  no  one  had  entered  the  ravaged 
little  parlour,  split  open  from  floor  to  ceiling  by  the  upburst 


486  That   Which   Hath  Wings 

of  the  High  Explosive,  and  offering  its  ravaged,  worthless 
interior  to  the  scrutiny  of  every  passing  eye. 

Worn  and  spent  with  fierce  exertion,  hard  fighting, 
and  loss  of  blood,  delirious  with  the  rising  fever  of  his 
wounds,  he  was  conscious  in  whiffs  and  snatches.  The 
conscious  intervals  made  fiery  streaks  across  broad  belts 
of  murky  shadow,  a  No  Man's  Land  wherein  Franky 
wandered,  meeting  things  both  beautiful  and  hideous, 
knowing  nothing  real  except  thirst,  racking  cramps,  and 
stabbing  pain. 

The  second  day  passed.  At  sun-high  a  distant  fury  of 
guns  broke  out.  Through  the  terrible  drum-fire  of  Prussian 
Artillery  he  fancied  he  could  hear  the  British  field-guns, 
hammering  out  Death  in  return  for  Death.  Suffering 
agonies  for  lack  of  water,  he  sustained  life  with  scraps  of 
chocolate  broken  from  a  half -cake  carried  in  a  breast-pocket. 
To  move  one  hand  and  carry  it  to  his  mouth  was  possible 
at  cost  of  ugly  pain.  Night  fell,  a  night  that  was  rainy,  and 
windy,  full  of  cool  drippings  that  wet  Franky 's  clothes  with- 
out visiting  his  baked  lips,  and  still  the  cannonade  went 
on  ceaselessly — so  that  the  crazy  walls  that  sheltered  him 
shuddered  and  the  earth  vibrated,  and  the  eeriness  was 
made  more  eerie  with  the  sliding  of  tiles  from  broken  rafters, 
and  the  creaking  and  banging  of  broken  doors,  slammed  by 
ghostly,  invisible  hands.  Pale  splashes  of  light, — reflected 
stabs  of  fire  from  the  muzzles  of  those  unsleeping  guns  in 
the  south  and  west,  made  the  darkness  yet  more  dreary. 
Rats  scrambled  and  squeaked,  close  to  him  in  the  obscurity, 
evoking  horrible  suggestions  of  being  gnawed  and  bitten  as 
one  lay  helpless  there.  ...  He  gritted  his  teeth  to  keep 
back  the  cry  that  nearly  broke  from  him  as  one  rodent 
crossed  him,  its  hooked  claws  rattling  against  his  straps  and 
buttons,  its  cold  hairless  tail  sliding  snakily  over  his  hand. 
He  fancied  that  he  saw  its  eyes  shining  in  the  darkness — he 
was  certain  that  it  had  moved  and  lopped  round  behind 
him — he  felt  its  whiskered  snout  cautiously  approaching 


Kultur !  487 

the  throbbing  artery  beneath  his  ear.  .  .  .  Then  his  nerve 
left  him,  and  he  croaked  out  feebly,  though  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  shouted : 

"S'cat,  you  brute!  Get,  you  beggar!  Halloa;  Halloa! 
Beiges  au  secours  1  Id  un  Anglais,  grievement  hlesse!  Is 
anybody  there?" 

But  there  came  no  answer  save  the  muffled  thunder  of 
guns  in  the  distance,  the  crackle  of  fire  in  houses  that  were 
burning,  the  gurgling  of  a  broken  water-main,  and  the  dis- 
tressed miaowing  of  a  cat.  It  came  nearer.  There  was  a 
rustling  sound,  and  the  light  descent  of  a  furry  body  on 
padded  feet;  Pussy  had  jumped  in  where  the  window  had 
been,  alighting  not  far  from  Franky.  He  could  see  a  pair  of 
green  eyes  lamping  in  the  darkness,  and  called,  seductively: 

"Pussy,  pussy!     Come  here,  old  girl!" 

The  purr  came  near.  Franky,  with  infinite  torment 
reached  out  a  hand,  felt  and  stroked  a  warm,  furry 
body.  He  said,  cautiously  feeling  for  the  appreciative, 
sensitive  places  at  the  nape  of  a  cat's  neck,  and  under  the 
jaws: 

"Good  old  girl.  Don't  know  what  they  call  cats  in 
Flemish,  but  Pussy  seems  to  be  good  enough  for  you.  Stop 
and  scare  the  rats  away,  give  'em  fits,  eh.  Pussy?  You're 
agreeable?     Good  egg!     Oh — I  say!" 

For  Pussy  had  walked,  loudly  purring,  on  to  the  chest  that 
heaved  so  painfully,  and  proceeded  to  knead  the  surface 
scientifically,  preparatory  to  curling  down.  Franky  set  his 
teeth,  and  bore  the  ordeal.  Thus  they  kept  company  until 
morning,  when  Pussy,  who  proved  to  be  a  lean  white  Tom 
with  patches  of  sandy  tortoiseshell  on  flanks  and  shoulders, 
withdrew  by  the  fanged  opening  where  the  window  had 
been.  A  moment  later  Franky  heard  his  late  companion 
lapping  noisily  from  a  street-puddle  and  knew  envy,  in  the 
anguish  of  his  own  unrelieved  thirst. 

He  wandered  then  for  a  space  of  hours  or  instants,  in  the 
days  of  his  own  lost  childhood.     He  was  in  the  night-nursery 


488  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

at  Whins,  suffering  from  some  feverish  ill.  He  felt  the 
prickling  as  of  innumerable  ants  running  up  his  limbs  and 
the  sweat  upon  his  forehead,  and  called  moaningly  to  Nurse 
for  drink.  But  it  was  his  mother  in  her  dinner-dress,  with 
shining  jewels  crowning  her  dark  hair,  and  wreathing  her 
neck  and  starring  her  bosom,  who  came  to  the  bedside  and 
leaned  over  him,  put  the  rumpled  hair  from  his  hot  forehead, 
and  held  to  his  lips  the  cup  of  milk.  Then  a  droning  sound 
made  the  room  vibrate,  and  he  was  back  with  his  company 
in  the  hastily-dug  trench  across  the  mouth  of  the  west- 
running  thoroughfare,  and  church-bells  were  clanging  and 
the  telephone-buzzer  was  calling  for  the  reserve  to  double 
out  and  reinforce  the  men  in  the  trench  enfilading  the 
bridge.  .  .  . 

Then  he  was  awake  and  the  sun  was  high.  Those  guns 
in  the  west  were  silent  now,  though  from  the  south  and 
south-east  came  heavy  thuds  and  long  vibrations.  Through 
the  rents  in  the  flooring  above  him  by  which  the  rain  had 
dripped  upon  him  in  the  night,  he  was  looking  at  the  blue 
sky.  A  big  white  bird  hovered  there.  Not  a  bird — a 
Taube.  The  Taube,  and  he  had  not  dreamed  the  buzzing 
after  all. 

Oh,  but  it  was  queer  to  lie  there  under  the  keen  scrutiny 
of  that  eye  in  the  heavens !  It  made  the  prickly  ants  swarm 
up  Franky's  thighs  and  sides  until  the  sensation  grew  unbear- 
able. Hate,  fierce  hate  of  the  murderous,  beautiful  thing 
droning  up  there  in  the  azure  sky  above  its  curious  misty 
circle  made  him  see  everything  red,  made  him  want  to  yell 
and  shriek.  For  Margot  was  in  danger,  somehow — some- 
where— while  one  lay  helpless  as  a  log.  .  .  . 

"Steady,  old  child!"  whispered  Franky  to  himself,  warn- 
ingly.     "You're  going  off  your  chump.     Hold  still!" 

And  he  held  still.  The  Buzzard  ceased  to  buzz,  and 
floated  on,  droning.  He  fancied  that  he  felt  its  shadow 
darken  and  pass  over  him,  moving  from  his  head  to  his  feet. 


Kultur !  489 

The  noise  of  the  tractor  stopped.  Reflected  in  the  area  of 
a  skewed  wall-mirror  he  saw  the  machine  volplane  down, 
and  alight  without  a  falter  in  the  Market  Place — before 
the  smoking  ruins  of  the  Town  Hall. 


CHAPTER  LXI 


LYNETTE  DREAMS 


Upon  that  same  night  in  October  nearly  five  weeks  following 
the  breaking  of  the  Woe  Wave,  Lynette  Saxham  had  a 
strange  dream. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  saw  piled  up  in  one  colossal  heap 
the  riches  of  all  the  world,  the  world  we  know  and  the  world 
we  have  forgotten;  the  treasures  of  all  ages  piled  up  higher 
than  Kilimanjaro,  or  Aconcagua,  or  the  cloud-mantled  peak 
of  Mount  Everest.  To  her  feet  as  she  stood  spell-bound 
amongst  the  foothills,  rolled  jewelled  crowns,  and  huge 
barbaric  torques  and  diadems  of  rough  gold,  precious  cups, 
vases,  and  chargers;  outpoured  treasures  of  precious  stones 
and  wrought  gems  of  inconceivable  beauty  and  vileness, 
wondrous  fabrics,  marvels  of  sculpture,  weapons,  armour 
and  coins  of  age  beyond  the  ages — rude  discs  of  tarnished 
gold,  stamped  with  the  effigies  of  forgotten  kings.  Orders, 
decorations,  the  paraphernalia  of  Pomp,  the  stage-properties 
of  Power,  the  symbols  of  every  religion,  save  One,  were 
mingled  in  the  stupendous  pile,  and  a  terrible  Voice  cried; 

"Gone  is  the  age  of  pride  in  possession!  Chattels  and 
fardels  are  no  more !  The  days  have  spilt  like  pearls  from  a 
broken  necklace !  Time  has  eaten  the  years  as  the  moth  a 
garment  of  wool !  Foredone,  foregone,  finished !  Who  now 
will  gather  riches  from  the  Dustheap  of  the  World?"  And 
as  new  avalanches  of  treasure  rolled  downwards  to  the  rever- 
beration of  that  thunderous  shout,  a  Hand  of  Titanic  pro- 
portions hurled  down  upon  the  heap  a  war-chariot  of  beaten 
gold,  with  great  scythed  wheels,  and  jewelled  harness;  and 
that  vision  changed,  and  the  dreamer  was  drowning,  deep 
down  in  clear  green  seas,  under  the  rushing  keel  of  a  huge 

490 


Lynette  Dreams  491 

barbaric  War-galley  that  was  all  of  gold,  arabesqued  and 
bossed  with  jewels,  and  coral,  and  pearl. 

And  the  sense  of  suffocation  passed,  and  a  wonderful  cool 
peace  flowed  in  upon  Lynette.  She  seemed  to  be  led  by  a 
beloved  hand  that  had  been  dust  for  years,  into  a  bare 
walled  place  through  which  a  thin  breeze  piped  shrilly. 
Someone  was  there,  doing  some  manual  labour.  He  turned, 
and  with  a  shock  of  unutterable  rapture  Lynette  was  looking 
in  the  face  of  her  lost  boy. 

Bawne  had  grown  thin  and  seemed  taller.  His  temples 
had  hollowed,  his  plume  of  tawny-gold  hair  hung  unkempt 
over  his  wide  white  forehead.  But  his  blue  eyes  were  as 
sweet  as  ever.  She  had  never  realised  how  like  they  were 
to  Saxham's  in  shape  and  colour,  and  in  expression,  until 
now.  He  thrust  his  lower  jaw  out  and  knit  his  brows 
slightly,  as  though  her  face  were  fading  from  his  vision,  and 
he  wished  to  fix  in  mind  the  memory  of  its  well-loved 
features : 

"Stay,  Mother!  Oh!  Mother,  don't  leave  me!"  he  cried, 
and  stretched  out  his  hands  to  her,  and  she  awakened, 
weeping  for  sorrow  and  joy. 

It  was  broad  day.  Her  husband  was  not  there.  She 
rose  and  bathed  in  the  cold  water  she  loved,  and  dressed  in 
the  simple  Quaker-like  grey  that  set  off  her  fairness,  and 
went  out  to  Mass.  .  .  .  The  day's  Preparation  was  taken 
from  the  noble  prayer  of  St.  Ambrose,  Bishop  and  Con- 
fessor : 

"And  now  before  Thee,  0  Lord,  I  lay  the  troubles  of  the 
poor;  the  sorrows  of  natiojis,  and  the  groanings  of  those  in 
bondage;  the  desolation  of  the  fatherless;  the  weariness  of  way- 
farers; the  helplessness  of  the  sick;  the  struggles  of  the  dying; 
the  failing  strength  of  the  aged;  the  ambitious  hopes  of  young 
men;  the  high  desires  of  maidens;  and  the  widow's  tears.  For 
Thou,  0  Lord,  art  fidl  of  pity  for  all  me?i:  nor  hatest  aught  of 
that  which  Thou  hast  made.  " 

He  even  loved  von  Herrnung,  who  had  taken  her  boy,  and 


492  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

kept  him  in  slavery,  and  robbed  the  joyous  Hght  from  his 
sweet  eyes,  and  set  amongst  his  red'-brown  hair  one  sinister 
streak  of  white.  She  saw  the  bleached  forelock  dangling 
before  her  eyes  when  she  shut  them  and  tried  to  pray  for 
the  Enemy: 

"Oh  God!  forgive  that  evil  man,  and  turn  his  heart  to- 
wards mercy  and  pitifulness,  and  give  me  back  Thy  precious 
gift,  for  the  love  of  Her  who  is  Thy  Mother!" 

It  was  yet  early  when  she  returned  to  Harley  otreet  and 
passed  at  once  into  the  Doctor's  consulting-room.  There, 
where  her  lips  had  first  kissed  him,  sleeping  in  his  chair,  she 
found  Saxham  sitting  at  his  table,  with  his  sorrow  of  heart 
revealed  in  the  stoop  of  his  great  shoulders,  and  his  greying 
head  resting  upon  his  hands.  Not  a  sound  did  he  utter,  but 
the  attitude  was  more  than  eloquent : 

"Oh  my  son!"  it  said.     "Oh  me!— my  little  son!" 

"Owen!"  she  said,  coming  to  his  side  and  touching  him. 
Then,  as  he  started  and  looked  up:  "Bawne  is  alive!"  she 
cried.  "I  have  seen  him  in  a  dream,  and  he  has  spoken  to 
me.  He  was  in  a  bare  high  place  with  corrugated  iron  walls, 
whitened.  It  made  me  think  of  the  Hospital  at  Guelders- 
dorp  in  the  old  days,  and  of  a  hangar.  .  .  .  His  clothes  were 
soiled  and  torn,  and  his  hands  were  blackened.  One  other 
thing  I  saw — but  I  will  not  wring  your  heart  by  telling 
you.  ...  It  is  enough  that  I  have  seen  our  boy.  .  .  . 
alive.  Oh !  thank  God ! "  She  stopped,  and  the  rose  of  joy 
faded  from  her  cheeks,  and  only  the  tears  were  left  there. 
Her  eyes  widened  with  a  terrible  doubt.  "You  knew!  .  .  . 
It  is  in  your  face!  You  had  heard  .  .  .  something,  and 
you  did  not  tell  me ! " 

"I  had  not  the  courage.  Despise  me,  for  I  deserve  it !  I 
had  news  of  Bawne  at  the  end  of  August.  He  is  with  that 
man  who  stole  him—"  He  clenched  the  hand  that  rested 
on  the  table  until  the  knuckles  showed  white  upon  it  and  his 
hair  was  wet  upon  his  forehead  and  his  mouth  was  twisted 
awry.     "Taken  with  him  on  errands  of  aerial  reconnais- 


Lynette  Dreams  493 

sance — carried  helplessly  into  battle  as  a  Teddy  bear  or  a 
golliwog  might  be  fastened  on  the  front  of  a  racing-plane. 
And,  when  I  remember  that  I  bade  him  risk  that  journey — " 
Saxham  broke  off,  and  turned  his  face  away.  She  came 
nearer  to  him  and  said: 

"But  he  is  alive! — alive,  even  though  he  be  in  danger. 
My  dream  was  sent  to  tell  me  so.  Did  not  the  Mother  come 
to  me  in  my  sleep  and  lead  me  to  him?  Just  as  when 
she  came  and  sent  me  here  to  you.  Now  I  will  atone 
for  these  days  of  selfish  grieving.  Only  give  me  work  to 
do!" 

"Have  you  not  enough  upon  your  hands  already?  Too 
much,  I  have  sometimes  feared." 

"Only  the  Hospice  and  the  Schools,"  she  answered 
eagerly,  "and  the  Training  Houses  for  the  elder  women. 
And,  thanks  to  you,  these  are  excellently  staffed.  If  I 
were  to  die  it  would  make  little  difference.  Things  would 
go  on  just  the  same.  " 

"Would  they?" 

She  stooped,  lifted  his  hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it.  He 
looked  at  her  keenly  as  she  did  so,  and  the  over-bright  flush 
upon  the  thin  cheeks  and  the  hollows  about  the  beautiful 
eyes,  like  the  burning  touch  of  her  hand  and  of  her  lips,  told 
him  their  tale  of  woe. 

"Not  for  you.  Nothing  would  ever  be  the  same  for  you 
or  for  Bawne.     Therefore — give  me  more  work." 

"There  is  plenty  of  work,  unhappily,"  he  said,  "because 
of  this  calamity  that  has  fallen  upon  the  nation.  We  have 
notice  that  a  hundred  wounded  men  from  the  Front — many 
of  them  cot-cases — will  arrive  at  SS.  Stanislaus  and  Theresa's 
at  three  this  afternoon." 

"I  shall  be  there!" 

"I  am  not  going  to  try  to  dissuade  you.  I  will  not' keep 
back  what  God  has  given  to  me  from  those  who  have  given 
so  much  for  England.  There  is  another  quarter  where  you 
will  be  of  use."     His  eyes  were  on  the  triptych  frame  before 


494  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

him.  "  I  speak  of  that  little  Lady  Norwater — Patrine's 
friend — I  think  you  have  not  met?" 

"Oh,  but  I  have.  We  were  made  acquainted  with  each 
other  some  weeks  ago  at  the  Club."  Her  delicate  face  con- 
tracted. "That  day  when  the  news  came  about  the  British 
losses.  Just  before  that  poor  child  Brenda  Helvellyn 
blurted  out  the  dreadful  truth.  Owen,  it  was  tragic.  She 
had  known  it  from  the  beginning " 

"And  the  sister  forbade  her  to  breathe  a  hint  of  it.  That 
is  the  attitude  of  the  fashionable  Sadducean,  "  said  Saxham 
bitterly,  "who  not  only  denies  the  Atonement  and  the 
Resurrection,  but  will  not  admit  of  Death." 

"But,"  she  asked  him,  "what  of  Lady  Norwater? 
Patrine  tells  me  she  is  ill." 

"She  is  ill.  Lord  Norwater — at  first  reported  missing 
after  an  action  north  of  Ypres  on  the  — th  is  now  said  to 
have  been  killed." 

Lynette  was  silent.  Her  husband  knew  why  her  head 
was  bent  and  her  white  fingers  sought  a  little  Crucifix  she 
wore.  She  was  praying  for  the  dead  man.  Presently  she 
said: 

"He  was  very  brave,  I  believe?' 

"He  had  been  recommended  for  the  Victoria  Cross  for  a 
special  service  of  great  gallantry — rendered  during  the 
Battle  of  the  Aisne.  He  was  a  brave  and  simple  young 
man,  and  very  lovable.  His  wife  received  the  official 
intelligence  of  his  death  yesterday.  They  'phoned  Patrine, 
as  you  know,  and  sent  for  me  later.  Lady  Norwater  is 
expecting  her  confinement  at  the  end  of  November — and 
they  were  alarmed  for  her.  " 

"  Poor  little  soul !     Her  baby  will  be  a  comfort  to  her! " 

Saxham  remembered  under  what  circumstances  he  had 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Lady  Norwater,  and  his  look  was 
rather  grim.  In  his  mind's  ear  he  heard  again  the  sweet 
little  voice  saying  in  its  fashionable  slang  jargon: 

"Oh  no!     I  rather  cotton  to  kiddies.     It's  the  bother  of 


Lynette  Dreams  495 

having  'em  doesn't  appeal.  It  puts  everything  in  the  cart 
for  the  Autumn  Season." 

Still,  the  recent  remembrance  of  her  piteousness  softened 
the  Doctor's  never  ver}^  adamantine  heart  towards  her,  the 
humming-bird  broken  on  the  wheel  of  implacable  Fate.  Not 
unnatural,  after  all.  More  of  a  woman  than  one  would 
have  thought  her.  How  she  had  clasped  her  tiny  hands 
together  and  entreated  him,  when  the  worst  was  feared  for 
her,  to  save,  to  save  her  child. 

" Franky's  child.  Perhaps — the  boy  he  hoped  for.  Oh! 
to  have  to  say  hoped,  hurts  so  dreadfully.  Yes,  yes!  I  will 
be  brave  and  good  and  quiet.  ...  I  will  do  everything 
that  you  say.  Ah,  now  I  know  why  all  these  days  I  have 
felt  Franky  near  me,  and  seen  his  eyes  looking  at  me  out  of 
every  stranger's  face." 

M  argot  did  not  cry  out  in  her  pain  and  loneliness  for  her 
friend  Patrine  to  come  to  her,  though  she  sent  loving, 
grateful  messages  whenever  Pat  called  or  'phoned.  But 
she  had  said  to  Saxham,  only  that  morning:  "Doctor,  I 
met  your  wife  at  the  Club  not  long  ago.  She  is  more 
beautiful,  but  so  much  sadder  than  the  portrait  you  showed 
me.  Ah,  yes!  I  remember  why.  When  I  am  better,  would 
she  come  and  see  me?  Perhaps  it  is  inconsiderate  that  I 
should  ask.  But  the  world  is  so  huge  and  coarse  and  noisy 
and  empty" — the  little  lip  had  quivered — "and  there  is 
something  in  her  face  that  is  so  sweet,  I  have  been  fancying 
that  it  would" — she  hesitated — "be  good  for  me  and  for 
my  baby  if  she  would  sometimes  visit  me.  Do  you  think 
she  would  mind?" 

Saxham  had  answered: 

"I  will  ask  her."  Now  he  gave  the  piteous  message,  and 
Lynette  warmly  agreed: 

"Of  course  I  will  go.     Whenever  you  say  I  may!" 

"  Not  for  some  days.  She  is  to  see  no  one  yet,  and  your 
hands  are  full  with  Madame  van  der  Heuvel  and  Marienne 
and  Simonne."     The  Doctor  referred  to  an  exiled  Belgian 


496  That  Which    Hath  Wings 

lady  and  her  young  daughters,  who  had  been  received  at 
Harley  Street  as  guests.  "And — there  is  the  Hospital — 
and  to-night  you  have  to  address  this  Meeting  of  Suffragists 
at  the  Royal  Hall.  It  is  the  only  decision  of  yours,  let  me 
tell  you,"  said  Saxham,  "that  I  ever  felt  tempted  to  dis- 
pute. My  wife  upon  the  same  platform  with  Mrs.  Carrie 
Clash  and  Fanny  Leaven !  A  triple  force  of  Metropolitan 
Police  on  duty,  and  detectives  at  all  the  exits  and  amongst 
the  audience.     It's — "     Words  failed  Saxham. 

"It  is  unspeakably  hateful  in  your  eyes.  Dear  Owen,  I 
know  it.  But  I  should  be  hateful  in  my  own  sight  if  I  were 
to  break  my  word.  On  the  day  I  first  met  you  we  spoke  of 
these  views  of  mine.  I  hold  them  still.  Marriage  has  not 
altered  them.     It  is  not  in  me,  "  said  Lynette,  "to  change!" 

"You  are  the  soul  of  faithfulness  in  all  things!" 

"Then  do  not  be  grieved  that  I  keep  to  my  given  promise. 
Those  who  have  honoured  me  by  asking  me  to  address  them 
are  aware  that  my  convictions  are  opposed  to  theirs  at 
points.  But  while  I  oppose  I  admire  their  ruthless  de- 
votion and  their  magnificent,  unswerving  policy  of  self- 
sacrifice " 

"But  these  felonies,"  he  protested,  "these  incendiary 
attacks  upon  property " 

"In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  and  I  believe  the  authorities 
know  it  as  well  as  the  W.S.S.S.,  such  outrages  have  not  been 
committed  by  Suffragists  at  all. " 

"By  whom,  then?" 

"Have  we  no  enemies  without  our  gates  even  now  when 
we  are  at  War?" 

"Germans.  ..."  A  light  broke  in  upon  Saxham. 
"It's  not  impossible.  As  for  scattered  literature  being  evi- 
dence— that  can  be  bought  anywhere.  But  granted  the 
blackest  sheep  of  the  W.S.S.S.  to  be  proved — piebald,  that 
will  not  make  me  less  anxious  for  you  to-night." 

He  touched  a  heavy  plait  of  the  red-brown  hair  with  a 
ender  hand  and  said  to  her: 


Lynette  Dreams  497 

"  I  grudge  that  the  pearls  of  my  wife's  eloquence  should  be 
thrown  before  Suffragists." 

"We  disagree,  dear  love,"  she  said  to  him,  "but  we  do 
not  love  the  less  for  it.  When  the  Franchise  is  accorded  to 
Women,  should  I  vote  for  one  Party  and  you  for  another, 
will  that  matter  a  whit  to  you?" 

"Not  a  whit,  "  he  said,  as  he  kissed  her.  "You  may  give 
your  vote  to  whom  you  choose,  so  long  as  the  voter  remains 
mine.  Who  was  that?"  Saxham's  quick  ear  had  heard  a 
footstep  in  the  hall.  "  Madame  van  der  Heuvel  coming  back 
from  Mass?" 

"It  is  Patrine!" 

"Patrine  off  and  away  at  this  hour?" 

"I  told  her  I  would  explain  to  you." 

"She  has  explained  to  you,"  said  Saxham,  "and  that 
should  be  enough." 

"  Dear  Owen!  ...  I  am  sure  she  wished  you  to  know  of 
it.  .  .  .  She  has  gone  down  to  Seasheere,  a  little  Naval 
Flying-station  on  the  South-East  coast,  to  meet  Alan 
Sherbrand  on  the  home-flight  from  Somewhere  in 
France." 

"I  see  in  to-day's  Wire  that  he  has  been  gazetted  Lieu- 
tenant," said  Saxham.  "One  rather  wonders,  all  things 
considered,  that  it  has  not  happened  before." 

For  not  once  nor  twice  in  the  past  weeks  the  big  smudgy 
contents-bills  hung  upon  railings  and  worn  as  a  chest-pro- 
tector by  newspaper-vendors,  since  paper  became  too  scarce 
an  article  to  line  street-gutters  with,  had  trumpeted  the 
name  of  Sherbrand;  and  the  big  black-capitalled  headings 
had  set  forth  his  deeds  of  daring.  Only  to-day  they  had 
announced : 

"sherbrand  of  the  R.F.C.  strafes  another  HUN-BIRD. 
BAG  BROUGHT  UP  TO  NINE,  AND  TWO  ENEMY  KITE-BALLOONS. 
POPULAR  YOUNG  AVIATOR  NOW  VISCOUNT  NORWATER,  HEIR- 
PRESUMPTIVE  TO  BRITISH  EARL." 

32 


498  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

"He  may  be  sent  back  to  the  Front  at  any  moment — it 
is  natural  that  they  should  wish  to  be  together,  don't  you 
think?"  The  speaker  added,  as  Saxham  made  no  immedi- 
ate rejoinder:  "As  they  are  engaged  to  be  married,  and 
what  is  more,  engaged  with  your  consent." 

"She  has  told  you  so?" 

"No!"  A  shadow  of  the  old  smile  hovered  upon  the 
sensitive  mouth.  "I  told  her,  and  she  could  not  deny  it. 
,  .  .  Oh,  Owen!  Do  you  really  believe  I  have  been  blind 
all  this  time?" 

"I  should  have  known  that  women  have  clairvoyance  in 
these  matters.  But  Patrine  feared  that  you  would  think 
her  unfeeling  or  inconsiderate " 

"And  wh}^?  Because  when  God  sent  me  a  great 
grief  He  gave  my  poor  girl  a  great  happiness?  The 
best  earthly  happiness,  save  one,  that  He  holds  in  His 
gift." 

"  I  thank  Him  that  you  still  think  so,  after  thirteen  years 
of  marriage!" 

"I  shall  always  think  so,  Owen.  And  it  is  a  great  thing 
that  Patrine  has  chosen  so  well.  He  is  true  and  brave,  and 
loves  my  dear  sincerely.  And  her  love  is  beautiful  and  dis- 
interested.    There  is  no  taint  of  baseness  in  her " 

"She  has  nothing  of  Mildred  or  of  David,  then,"  flashed 
through  the  Doctor's  mind.     Lynette  went  on: 

"No  one  will  ever  be  able  to  charge  her  with  venality  or 
mercenariness.  The  succession  that  they  will  talk  of  in  the' 
newspapers  was  not  dreamed  of  when  she  and  Alan  fell  in 
love. " 

"The  succession!  Ah,  of  course'"  the  Doctor  said; 
"There  is  a  possible  succession  to  a  Viscounty  now  that 
Lord  Norwater's  death  is  proved  fact,  but  only  in  case  Lady 
Norwater  bears  no  male  child.  But  a  title  would  not  spoil 
Sherbrand,  and  I  agree  with  -^^ou  that  it  has  never  influenced 
Patrine." 

"How  tired  you  look!"  Lynette  said,  noting  the  look  of 


Lynette  Dreams  499 

heavy  care  and  the  deep  lines  of  weariness  traced  on  the 
stern  visage. 

"I  have  several  critical  private  cases,  and  a  long  list  of 
operations  for  this  morning  at  SS.  Stanislaus  and  Theresa's. 
Now  go  and  dress,  my  sweet,  for  I  have  work  to  do. " 

And  Lynette  went  with  a  happier  look  than  she  had  worn 
since  the  crushing  blow  fell.  And  Saxham  shot  the  bolt  of 
his  consulting-room  door  and  went  back  to  his  chair  at  the 
big  writing-table,  and  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hands. 

An  Atlas  burden  of  care  cracked  the  sinews  of  the  Doctor's 
huge  shoulders.  It  had  not  occurred  to  Saxham  when 
Patrine  had  gulped  out  her  pitiful  story,  and  he  had  heart- 
ened her  by  bidding  her  forget,  that  forgetfulness  would 
speedily  be  accomplished  at  the  cost  of  an  honest  man. 

Now,  what  to  do?  Must  Sherbrand  take  the  stranger's 
leavings  or  David's  girl  be  twice  the  loser  by  the  stranger's 
lustful  theft?  It  was  a  problem  to  thrash  the  brain  to  jelly 
of  grey  matter,  thought  the  Dop  Doctor,  drilling  his  finger- 
tips into  his  aching  temples — were  there  no  cause  for  anxiety 
elsewhere. 

Ah!  how  much  more  stuffed  the  pack  that  burdened  the 
big  shoulders.  The  boy  had  been  .taken  and  the  mother 
would  die  of  grief.  You  could  see  her  withering  like  a  white 
rose  held  near  the  blast  of  a  smelting-furnace.  Yet  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  look  on  and  play  the  game.  A  bitter 
spasm  gripped  the  man  by  the  throat,  and  slow  tears,  wrung 
from  the  depths  of  him  by  mortal  anguish,  splashed  on  the 
paper  between  his  elbows  and  raised  great  blisters  there. 

Truly,  when  the  spark  of  Hope  burns  dimmest,  when  the 
grain  of  Faith  is  a  thousand  times  smaller  than  the  mustard- 
seed — when  God  seems  most  far  away.  He  is  nearest.  We 
have  learned  this  with  other  truths,  in  the  War.  Blood  and 
tears  mingle  in  the  collyrium  with  which  our  eyes  have  been 
bathed,  that  we  might  see. 

Saxham  battled  down  his  weakness,  and  rose  up  and  went 
to  duty.     None  might  guess,  looking  at  the  Dop  Doctor, 


500  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

that  those  hard,  bright  eyes  had  wept  an  hour  ago.     Later 
on,  a  moment  serving,  he  went  to  the  telephone. 

"Halloa!  Is  this  New  Scotland  Yard?  M.P.O.?  Halloa! 
...  I  am  Dr.  Saxham,  speaking  from  SS.  Stanislaus  and 
Theresa's  Hospital,  N.W.  Can  I  get  word  with  Superin- 
tendent-on-the-Executive,  Donald  Kirwall?  Halloa!  .  .  . 
Thanks,  I'll  hold  the  line. " 

He  waited  a  minute,  and  the  Superintendent  answered: 

"Halloa!  Dr.  Saxham?  Anything  we  can  do  for  you, 
sir?" 

"Yes.  Put  me  on  six  good  plain-clothes  men  at  this 
Mass  Meeting  of  Suffragists  at  the  Royal  Hall  to-night. 
Can  you?  .  .  .  Halloa!  ...  I  could  do  with  eight  or 
ten!" 

"Halloa!  .  .  .  Well,  sir,  we'll  do  what  we  can.  We'll 
be  pretty  strong  in  force  there,  as  it  happens,  Marylebone 
and  Holborn  and  St.  James's  Divisions.  ..."  Something 
like  an  official  chuckle  came  over  the  line.  "Mrs.  Petrell 
in  the  chair,  and  the  Clash  and  Fanny  Higgins.  We've 
learned  to  look  for  trouble  when  they  get  up  to  speak. 
Halloa!     Beg  pardon!     I  didn't  quite  hear!  ..." 

Saxham  had  cursed  the  popular  leaders. 

"Yes,  I  was  aware  they'd  prevailed  on  Mrs.  Saxham  to 
address  'em.  .  .  .  Indeed,  they're  advertising  her  all  over 
the  shop.  .  .  .  Halloa?  .  .  .  Certainly  we'll  put  you  on 
the  plain-clothes  men  you  ask  for.  But  even  without 
Police  to  protect  her,  Mrs.  Saxham  don't  run  much  risk. 
Halloa!  .  .  .  Why!  ...  Oh!  because  an  uncommon  big 
percentage  of  the  audience  on  these  packed  nights  are  out- 
and-out  loose  women.  Soho  and  Leicester  Square,  and  all 
that  lot.  .  .  .  Others  come  up  from  Poplar  and  Stepney 
and  Bethnal  Green  and  Deptford  to  hear  Fanny  Higgins. 
Halloa?  Do  they  want  the  Vote?  Well,  naturally  these 
gay  women  like  the  idea  of  being  Represented  in  Parliament. 
If  respectable  females  are  going  to  get  good  of  it,  naturally 
the  prostitutes  want  the  Franchise.    They  hold  that  Woman 


Lynette  Dreams  501 

Suffrage 'ud  improve  their  conditions.  Halloa!  .  .  .  You 
don't  know  but  what  the  gay  women  have  as  good  a  right  to 
vote  as  the  gay  men  who  employ  'em?  No  more  don't  I! 
But  whatever  they  are,  they  appreciate  those  who  spend 
their  lives  in  trying  to  help  the  unfortunate.  And,  West  or 
East-Enders — the  most  chronic  cases  among  'em  wouldn't 
suffer  a  finger  to  be  laid  on  your  wife.  All  the  same,  I'll 
attend  to  your  instructions.  Doors  at  7.  The  men  shall 
be  there.  Don't  worry  yourself  I  Four  ready  back  of  the 
Platform  and  four  more  posted  right  and.  left  of  the  pro- 
scenium. Don't  mention  it!  Very  proud  to.  .  .  .  Good- 
afternoon!" 

"Good-afternoon  and  thanks,  Superintendent!" 
And  Saxham  rang  off,  more  relieved  in  mind  than  he 
would  have  cared  to  own.  Then  the  horn  of  a  motor 
sounded  below  in  the  Hospital  courtyard,  and  another  and 
another  followed.  Tyres  crackled  on  gravel.  The  running 
feet  of  men  pattered  on  pavement.  The  hall-porter  whistled 
up  the  speaking-tube  into  the  Medical  Officer's  Room,  and 
Saxham  went  down,  meeting  the  black-robed  Mother 
Prioress  and  the  Sister  Superintendent  on  their  way  to  the 
great  vestibule. 


CHAPTER  LXII 

WOUNDED  FROM  THE  FRONT 

The  wide-leaved  front  doors  stood  open.  Doctors  and 
surgeons,  theatre-assistants,  students,  white-habited  Sisters, 
blue-and-white-uniformed  nurses  and  probationers,  were 
swarming  in  the  great  vestibule.  Already  a  double  stream 
of  canvas  stretchers,  laden  with  still  figures  swathed  in 
iodined  gauze  and  cotton-wool  padding,  were  being  carried 
up  the  wide  steps,  from  the  big  grey-painted  Red  Cross 
motor-ambulances,  by  R.A.M.C.,  and  blue-uniformed 
bearers  of  St.  Theresa's  Association,  while  omnibuses,  pri- 
vate cars,  taxis  from  Charing  Cross  and  Victoria  were  hauled 
up  behind,  waiting  to  disgorge  their  loads.  And  cheer  upon 
cheer  went  up  from  the  packed  sidewalks  and  roadway; 
handkerchiefs  waved  from  the  windows  of  the  nearest  houses, 
and  the  passengers  on  the  roofs  of  the  omnibuses  passing 
up  and  down  Wellington  Road,  Edgware  Road,  and  Praed 
Street,  stood  up  and  craned  their  necks  in  the  fruitless 
endeavour  to  glimpse  the  reason  of  those  frantic  cheers. 

For  the  first  convoy  of  wounded  from  the  Front  had 
reached  the  Hospital.  These  unwashed,  begrimed,  hairy 
brigands,  these  limping  tramps  in  tattered  khaki,  these 
bandaged  cripples  leading  blind  comrades,  were  our  Guards, 
our  Gunners,  our  Highlanders,  Kents,  Middlesex  men  and 
Munsters,  our  Rifles  and  Northamptons,  our  Welsh  and 
Gloucesters,  our  Scots  Greys  and  Lancers,  our  immortals 
of  those  red-hot  days  of  August,  and  their  compeers,  the 
terrible  fighters  of  the  Marne  and  the  Aisne.  .  .  . 

They  were  back,  full  of  cross-nicked,  nickel-coated  Mau- 
ser bullets,  bits  of  shell  and  lumps  of  shrapnel,  cheap  jokes, 
music-hall  choruses,  vermin,  and  spunk.     The  reek  of  lysol 

502 


Wounded  from  the  Front  503 

and  carbolic,  the  sickly  whiff  of  dysentery  and  the  ghastly 
stench  of  gangrene,  brought  back  to  Saxham  the  Hospital 
at  Gueldersdorp,  as  he  passed  back  and  forth  between  the 
stretchers,  issuing  swift  orders,  briefly  wording  directions, 
marshalling  his  trained  forces  with  the  generalship  that  had 
distinguished  him  of  old. 

"Doctor!" 

"What  is  it.  Ironside?"  Saxham  turned  to  speak  to  the 
Resident  Medical  Officer.     "You  look  off-colour,  man!" 

"  I  feel  off,  sir.  They're  so  damned  full  of  grit,  and  cheer- 
ful! Not  only  the  cases  from  the  Base  Hospitals,  but  those 
casualties  they've  sent  us  direct  from  the  trenches.  .  .  . 
Two  days  in  the  train  getting  to  Calais — and  Lord!  the 
straw  and  filthiness  in  their  wounds !  And  we've  been  told 
our  next  War'd  be  carried  out  on  an  absolutely  Aseptic  Basis, 
and  here  we  are  back  in  1900!" 

"Not  quite,"  said  Saxham.  "Wounds  like  these  were 
never  made  by  Boer  shrapnel.  Human  bodies  shattered 
beyond  imagination  by  High  Explosive,  rank  among  the 
triumphs  of  Modern  Science.  After  the  Stone  Age  and  the 
Iron  Age,  the  Golden  Age  and  the  Age  of  Shoddy  has  come 
the  Age  of  Militant  Chemistry.     Martianism,  in  a  word. " 

"  It's  an  ugly  word.  .  .  .  Doctor,  that  man  over  there, " 
the  speaker  indicated  a  pair  of  hollow  eyes  staring  hungrily 
over  a  huge  iodine-smeared  gauze  muffler,  "wants  to  know 
if  we  can  save  his  lower  jaw?  Not  that  there's  much  left 
of  it.  His  pal,  who  interprets  for  him,  says  a  wounded 
German  officer  shot  him  in  the  face  with  his  revolver,  'cos 
he  went  to  give  the  blankety  blank  a  drink  out  of  his  water- 
bottle.  One  of  the  Gunners — and  not  long  married,  accord- 
ing to  the  pal." 

"All  right,  tell  him!  Name  him  for  one  of  my  beds," 
Saxham  said  brusquely,  and  nodded  to  the  owner  of  the 
desperate  eyes,  saying,  as  they  flared  back  their  gratitude : 
"Even  if  it  had  been  1821  in  the  cattle-truck,  we're  in  the 
Twentieth  Century  here.     Warn  Burland, "  he  named  the 


504  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

anesthetist,  "for  duty  at  once.  Gaynor  Gaynes  and  Frost 
to  be  ready  with  the  X  Ray  on  Flat  I.  Mr.  Whitchett  and 
Mr.  Pridd  to  act  as  Assistant  Surgeons.  We'll  take  the 
worst  cases  straight  away " 

"But,  my  God,  sir!  most  of  these  men  are  beyond  Sur- 
gery, "  groaned  Ironside,  cracking  his  finger-joints.  "Broken 
and  mashed  and  rent  as  they  are,  what  they  need  is  to  be 
re-created!  .  .  .  If  Christ  were  to  look  in  here  just  now, " 
the  Medical  Resident  cried  in  his  bitterness,  "there'd  be 
plenty  of  work  in  His  line.  New  tissues  to  make,  bony 
structures  to  re-build.  Organs  to  replace  where  organs 
have  been  destroyed.  He'd  have  done  it  by  mixing  earth 
with  His  saliva  and  anointing.  We  might  as  well  spit  on 
twenty  per  cent,  of  these  fellows — for  all  the  good  we  can 
do!" 

"Give  them  liquid  nourishment — brandy  where  neces- 
sary, and  send  those  I've  tagged  up  to  the  theatre.  No 
waiting  to  wash — in  their  cases.  And  remember  my  Gun- 
ner gets  the  first  look-in!" 

Saxham  turned  and  ran  at  speed,  making  for  the  nearest 
elevator,  found  it  just  going  up  full  of  stretcher-cases  lying 
close  packed  as  sardines,  turned  and  shot  up  the  stone  stair- 
case three  steps  at  a  time  to  the  first  floor,  glittering  with 
white  enamel,  polished  oak,  brass  fittings  and  cleanliness, 
under  the  discreet  radiance  of  shaded  electric  lights.  The 
centre  space  was  occupied  by  the  tribune  engirdling  the 
domed  Sanctuary  of  the  Chapel.  Short  corridors  tastefully 
adorned  with  red-enamelled  buckets,  blue  glass  bombs  of 
chemical  fire-extinguisher,  and  snaky  coils  of  brass-fitted 
hose,  led  to  long  wards  running  east,  west,  north,  and 
south. 

"Eh,  Doctor!" 

A  fair-faced,  gentle-eyed  Sister  of  Mercy,  in  the  wide- 
winged  starched  linen  cap  and  guimpe,  and  white  twill 
nursing-habit  with  the  black  Cross,  stood  near  the  lift, 


Wounded  from  the  Front  505 

talking  to  a  tall,  raw-boned,  white-haired  Surgeon-General 
of  the  R.A.M.C.  She  greeted  Saxham's  appearance  with  a 
little  womanly  cry: 

"Eh,  Doctor!  Never  it  rains  buddit  pours."  There 
was  a  hint  of  Lancashire  in  her  dialect.  "The  R.A.M.C. 
have  sent  us  ten  more  cases.  Dear,  dear! — but  we'll  have 
our  hands  full." 

"Then  you'll  be  happy,  Sister-Superintendent.  I've 
never  known  you  so  beamingly  contented  as  when  you  were 
regularly  run  off  your  feet,  and  hadn't  a  minute  to  say  your 
Rosary.     Anything  specially  interesting.  Sir  Duncan?" 

"Aweel!"  The  broad  Scots  tongue  of  Taggart  droned 
the  bagpipe-note  as  of  old.  "Aweel!  There's  an  abdaw- 
minal  or  twa  I'd  like  ye  to  throw  your  'ee  over — an'  a  G.P. 
that  ye  will  find  in  your  line.  Fracture  o'  the  lumbar 
vairtebra  from  shrapnel — received  ten  o'clock  yesterday 
morr'ning! — an'  some  cases  o'  shellitis,  wi'  intermittent 
accesses  o'  raging  mania  an'  intervals  o'  mild  delusions — 
an'  ane  will  gar  you  draw  on  the  Medical  Officer's  Emer- 
gency List  o'  Abbreviated  Observations  I  supplied  ye  wi'  a 
guid  few  years  agone. " 

"  I've  not  forgotten. " 

"I'm  no'  dootin'  but  ye  have  found  it  unco'  useful." 
Taggart's  frosty  eyelashes  twinkled.  "It  has  saved  my 
ain  face  from  shame  mair  times  than  I  daur  tell."  He 
quoted,  relishingly:  "  Al.B.A.— Might  Be  Anything!  G. 
O.K.— Guid  Only  Knows!  L.F.A.— Luik  for  Alcohol. 
A.D.T.— Any  Damned  Thing!  'Toch,  Sister,  I  beg  your 
parr-don !  The  word  slipped  oot — I  have  nae  other  excuse  1 
But  my  case  o'  shell-shock,  Saxham.  What  say  ye  to  an 
involuntary  simuleetion  o'  rigor  mortis  ?  A  man  sane  an' 
sound  an'  hale — clampit  by  his  relentless  imagination  into 
the  shape  o'  a  Polwheal  Air-Course  Finder,  or  a  pair  o' 
dividers.  Half  open,  ye  ken.  Ye  may  stand  him  on  the 
ground  upo'  his  feet,  an'  his  neb  is  pointing  at  the  daisies — 
or  ye  may  lie  him  o'  his  back  in  bed — an'  his  taes  are  tickling 


5o6  That  Which   Hath  Wings 

the  stars.  Am  thinking  it  long  till  I'm  bringing  ye  thegither ! 
But  ye  are  busied.     I'll  no'  keep  ye  the  noo. " 

Racing  for  the  second  lift,  just  emptied  of  its  sorrowful 
burden,  the  big  shirt-sleeved  Doctor  checked  in  his  stride 
and  touched  the  handle  of  a  sliding  door.  The  door  shot 
back  noiselessly  in  its  grooving.  Saxham  was  in  a  cush- 
ioned tribune  high  above  the  level  of  the  chapel  Altar.  The 
scent  of  flowers  and  the  perfume  of  incense  hung  like  a  beni- 
son  on  the  still  air  of  the  sacred  place. 

In  one  of  the  carved  stalls  of  the  nave  the  figure  of  a 
priest  in  cassock  and  biretta  sat  reading  from  a  breviary. 
It  was  the  Chapbin,  waiting  in  readiness  to  be  called  to 
administer  Holy  Unction  and  Viaticum  to  some  Catholic 
soul  about  to  depart.  In  the  choir  behind  the  high  Altar  a 
slight  girl,  in  the  frilled  cap  and  prim  black  gown  of  the 
Novitiate,  knelt  on  a  rush-bottomed  prie-dieu  absorbed  in 
meditation,  her  black  Rosary  twisted  round  her  clasped 
hands.  Prayers  that  are  most  earnest  are  frequently  inco- 
herent. Saxham  formulated  no  petition  as  he  knelt  there 
in  the  tribune,  but  the  cry  of  his  heart  to  the  Divine  Hearer 
might  have  been  construed  into  words  like  these: 

"  If  Thou  wert  here  in  the  visible  Body  as  when  of  old  Thou 
didst  walk  on  earth  with  Thy  Disciples,  Thou  woiddst  heal  these 
broken  sons  of  Thine  with  Thy  look,  Thy  Totich,  Thy  Word  ! 
Yet  art  Thou  here — for  Thou  hast  said  it,  ever  present  for  Thy 
Faithful  in  Spirit,  Flesh,  and  Blood.  Help  0  Helper  !  Heal 
0  Healer  I  Lord  Jesus,  present  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament  of 
the  Altar,  give  power  and  wisdom  to  Thy  servant.  Aid  me, 
working  in  the  dark  by  my  little  flame  of  hard-won  knowledge, 
to  preserve  life,  Thou  Giver  of  Life!     Ameti." 

So  having  prayed,  the  Dop  Doctor  went  up  to  the  theatre 
and  wrought  mightily,  doing  wonderful  things  in  the  way  of 
patching  and  botching  the  broken  bodies  of  men.  Later,  as 
he  sat  in  the  Harley  Street  dining-room  playing  the  court- 


Wounded  from  the  Front  507 

eous,  attentive  host  to  sad-eyed,  wistful  Madame  van  der 
Heuvel  and  her  two  pretty  daughters — for  Lynette  had 
dined  earlier  on  account  of  the  Suffrage  Meeting — he  heard 
a  latch-key  in  the  front-door  and  Patrine's  well-known  step 
in  the  hall. 

He  excused  himself,  rose  and  went  out,  and  spoke  to  his 
niece.  She  made  a  croaking  sound  in  answer,  as  unlike  the 
voice  of  Patrine  as  the  pinched  and  sunken  face  revealed  by 
the  hall  electroliers,  resembled  the  face  of  dead  David's 
handsome  girl.  The  mouth  hung  lax.  The  cheeks  had 
fallen.  The  eyes  stared  blank  and  tearless,  from  hollow 
caves  under  the  broad  black  eyebrows.  He  said  with  a 
pricking  of  foreboding: 

"You  have  had  a  long  day!  ..." 

' '  Not  long  enough  to  tire  me.  I  am  made  of  india-rubber, 
I  think,  and  steel.  " 

He  considered  her  a  moment  with  grave,  keen  eyes  that 
had  no  gleam  of  curiosity. 

"Sherbrand  is  well?  He  returned  from  France  in 
safety?" 

"He  was  quite  in  the  pink  when  he  arrived — and  ditto 
when  he  left.  Not  that  he  had  much  time.  A  wireless 
came,  ordering  him  to  replace  an  aviator  of  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps,  killed  on  observation-duty — or  whatever  it  is 
they  call  it — with  our  fellows  on  the  new  Front.  Rough  on 
him,  but  he  took  it  smiling.  No,  thanks!  I'm  not  keen 
on  dinner.  .  .  .     You  won't  mind  if  I  go  to  my  room?" 

"One  moment.  Have  you  had  food  to-day?"  he  asked 
her. 

"I  forget.  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course!  There  was  luncheon  at 
one  o'clock.  The  people  at  the  Air  Station  did  us  tremen- 
dously well."  Her  mouth  twisted.  "  I  think  it  better  to 
tell  you  and  Lynette  that  Alan  Sherbrand  and  I  have  said 
ta-ta!"  She  tried  to  smile.  "I'm  back  on  your  hands  like 
a  bad  penny!"  Her  eyes  seemed  all  black  between  their 
narrowed  lids. 


5o8  That   Which   Hath^Wings 

They  were  quite  alone,  no  servant  within  hearing,  and  the 
dining-room  door  was  shut.  Came  the  Doctor's  low-toned 
question : 

"Has  any — third  person  made  mischief  between  you 
two?" 

"No,  nobody  has  blabbed  to  him  about  anything.  But — 
he's  wise  enough  now,  as  regards  this  child.  Particularly 
wide-0!"  The  black,  glittering  eyes  looked  dry  and  hard 
as  enamel.  Her  teeth  again  showed  in  that  mirthless  grin. 
"I  don't  suppose  he  has  the  ghost  of  an  illusion  left.  .  .  . 
Women — most  women  would  say  I  was  a  howling  fool  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  I  never  meant  to — I  can  swear! 
— when  first  we  got  engaged.  I  used  to  call  his  goodness 
stodgy.  I  think  I  despised  him  for  it  in  certain  moods  of 
mine.  You've  never  realised  the  kind  of  beast  I  can  be. 
But  more  and  more,  I  got  to  respect  him !  And  suddenly — 
I  knew  that  if  I  married  him  under  false  colours — letting 
him  believe  me  to  be  what  I  amn't — even  though  he  never 
found  me  out — I'd — never  have  been  able  to  shake  hands 
with  myself  again'" 

She  moved  to  the  stairs,  the  sleeve  of  her  coat  brushing 
the  Doctor's  great  shoulder. 

"Don't  you  suppose  God  had  it  all  his  own  way,"  she 
said  in  that  odd,  strangled  voice  that  wasn't  like  Patrine's. 
"There  were  minutes  when  the  World,  and  the  Flesh,  and 
the  Devil  were  jolly  well  to  the  fore.  Alan  would  marry  me 
to-morrow  if  I  used  the  power  I  could  use.  But  I  won't! 
I  won't!  It'd  not  be  playing  the  decent,  straight  game. 
So  I  let  him  call  me  heartless,  and  piffle  like  that,  and  then 
the  game  seemed  hardly  worth  playing.  I'd  have  thrown 
up  my  cards — only  the  Recall  came.  And  we  said  good-bye, 
and  I  saw  him  fly  away  like  a  great  white  bird,  over  the 
water.  And  I'm  so  strong — so  horribly  strong — that  I 
stood  it  and  didn't  die.  .  .  .  Even  if  Alan's  killed  at  the 
Front  I  shan't  die.  .  .  .  Ah-hl  .  .  .  You  mustn't  touch 
me!"     Her    hands    plucked    themselves    violently    from 


Wounded  from  the  Front  509 

Saxham's  that  would  have  enfolded  them.  "I  could  stand 
anything  better  than  pity.  Being  pitied  would  kill  me — • 
though  I'm  so  awfully  strong!" 

"Then  trust  us  not  to  pity  you — only  to  love  you.  That 
I  look  upon  you  as  a  daughter  is  no  secret  to  3'ou,  I 
think?" 

"No,  dear!"  She  stroked  his  sleeve,  not  lifting  her 
pitifully  reddened  eyelids,  and  then  he  felt  her  start. 
"Uncle  Owen!"  Her  hand  clenched  upon  his  arm,  and  her 
tear-blurred  eyes  sought  his.  "I  must  tell  you.  .  .  .  He 
had  news  to  give  me  to-day — of  Bawne!" 

"Nothing  worse,  thank  God! — than  what  I  know 
already,"  Saxham  commented  when  she  had  told.  He 
stood  in  silence  a  moment,  mastering  himself,  and  the 
electric  hall-light  showed  in  his  harsh  square  visage  the  rav- 
ages that  grief  had  wrought. 

"How  you  have  suffered!  If  only  I  could  do  something 
to  comfort  you!"  she  muttered.  "And  L3'nette.  Do  you 
know — there  are  days" — a  sob  caught  her  breath — "when  I 
daren't  even  look  at  Lynette. " 

"It  is  so  with  me!"  His  voice  was  deep  and  quiet  and 
sorrowful.  ' '  Old  Webster  probed  deep  with  his  Elizabethan 
goose-quill,  when  he  wrote  of  the 

"Greyfe  that  wastyth  a  faire  woman 
Even  as  wax  doth  waste  yn  flame. " 

Pray  for  us  both,  my  dear,  and  believe  that  you  are  a  com- 
fort to  us. " 

She  said  with  a  laugh  that  was  half  a  sob:  "  I  might  have 
made  a  hole  in  the  water  at  Seasheere,  or  jumped  out  of  the 
train  on  the  way  back,  I  daresay,  but  for  the  thought  of  you 
both.  Or,  if  it  wasn't  that  stopped  me,  my  joss  was  on  the 
job." 

"I  had  rather  say  your  Guardian  Angel. " 

"Do  you  think  any  self-respecting  Guardian  Angel  could 
possibl}'  bother  about  a  regular  bad  egg  like  me  ? " 


510  That  Which  Hath  Wines 


t>' 


"Mine  did — when  my  wife  married  me  and  I  was  a 
peculiarly  bad  egg. " 

"You,  you  dear!"  She  suddenly  caught  him  round  the 
neck  and  hugged  him  strenuously.  "  Do  you  think  I  don't 
know — haven't  always  known  how  my  father  and  mother 
treated  you!" 

"Time  heals  wounds  of  that  kind,  "  said  Saxham,  as  they 
turned  together  from  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  and,  still 
keeping  a  protecting  arm  about  David's  daughter,  he 
reached  his  hat  and  stick  from  the  hall-stand,  "though  you 
may  doubt  the  statement  now." 

"  I  can't.     I'd  only  have  to  look  at  mother  to " 

"To  remember  that  she  is  your  mother!" 

His  tone  was  final  in  its  closure  of  the  subject.  But  in 
his  heart  he  thanked  frail  Mildred  once  again  for  her  ancient 
treachery,  as  he  went  out  to  the  waiting  car,  and  sped 
through  London's  murky  streets  to  the  North- West  suburb 
where  stands  the  Hospital. 

Patrine  went  upstairs,  holding  by  the  balusters  and  feel- 
ing chilly  and  old.  In  the  prettily  furnished  sitting-room, 
communicating  with  her  chintzy  bedroom,  were  her  letters, 
and  a  deep  cardboard  box  stood  upon  a  table.  It  had  been 
sent  on  to  Harley  Street  from  the  Club,  and  bore  the  address 
of  a  Regent  Street  florist,  whose  showy  establishment 
boasted  a  German  name. 

The  fragrance  of  roses  with  a  musky  after-tang  in  their 
sweetness  permeated  the  atmosphere.  There  were  no  roses 
amongst  the  flowers  on  the  chimney-shelf  and  cabinets.  It 
occurred  to  Patrine  that  there  must  be  roses  in  the  box. 

Her  head  was  throbbing  and  her  eyes  smarted.  She  threw 
off  her  hat  and  coat,  pitched  them  down  upon  the  chintz}^ 
sofa,  switched  off  the  electric  lights,  let  up  the  blinds,  pulled 
a  chair  close  to  the  open  window,  and  sat  down,  resting  her 
folded  arms  on  the  clean,  dustless  sill. 

Sitting  there,  staring  out  into  the  semi-obscurity  of  Har- 
ley Street,  with  the  late  cabs  and  motors  sliding  past  and 


Wounded  from  the  Front  511 

the  distant  roar  of  Oxford  Street  in  her  ears,  she  asked 
herself : 

"Have  I  behaved  like  an  honourable  woman  or — a 
blithering  idiot?     That's  what  I  want  to  know?" 

She  waited.  Not  one  pat  on  the  back  was  vouchsafed 
by  an  approving  Conscience.  The  indicator  of  the  dial 
slowly  travelled  in  the  direction  of  the  blitherer.  Patrine 
shut  her  hot,  dry  eyes,  and  began  to  conjure  up  the  day  that 
had  gone  over.  Its  sweetness  was  rendered  infinitely 
sweeter,  its  bitterness  a  hundredfold  more  poignant  by 
the  knowledge  that  it  was  the  last,  the  very  last. 

If  she  lived  to  be  old,  old,  old,  she  knew  she  would  never 
live  to  forget  Seasheere.  The  smell  of  the  hot  thyme  and 
sun-baked  grasses  of  the  cliffs,  the  rhythmic  frrsh  I  of  the 
salt  waves  upon  its  shingle,  the  shrill  piping  of  its  gulls,  and 
pale  blue  of  its  skies  would  never  fade,  never  cease,  never  be 
silent,  never  alter.  .  .  .  For  on  Seasheere  cliffs  her  Wind 
of  Joy  had  blown  for  the  last  time. 


CHAPTER  LXIII 

BAWNE    FINDS    A    FRIEND 

The  machine  that  could  hover  like  Sherbrand's  "Bird  of 
War"  had  come  down  in  the  Market  Place.  A  big  grey 
two-seater  monoplane,  with  the  rounded  cleft  bird-tail  and 
wings  of  the  German  Taube  type.  You  could  see  a  number 
on  its  side  and  three  big  black  Maltese  crosses,  and  the  pro- 
file heads  of  pilot  and  passenger  showing  up  in  strong  relief 
against  the  blackened  ruins  of  the  Town  Hall. 

A  bomb  hung  in  its  wire  cage-holder  on  the  visible  side  of 
the  fuselage.  It  struck  Franky  that  the  airman  must  be 
profoundly  sure  of  himself,  or  culpably  reckless  to  have 
come  down  before  getting  rid  of  the  thing.  A  swivel- 
mounting  like  a  barless  capital  A  supported  a  machine-gun 
above  the  radius  of  the  tractor,  and  well  within  reach  of  the 
pilot's  hand. 

The  pilot  got  down.  He  was  tall  and  big,  with  a  red 
moustache;  a  man  whose  natural  height  and  bulk  were  so 
augmented  by  the  padded  helmet  topped  with  the  now- 
raised  goggles,  the  pneumatic  jacket  girt  in  by  a  broad  band 
of  webbing,  supporting  a  brace  of  large  revolvers,  and  the 
heavy  bandolier  he  carried,  that  the  figure  of  his  companion, 
scrambling  after  him,  seemed  that  of  a  mere  dwarf. 

The  man  who  saw,  per  medium  of  the  rakishly-angled 
looking-glass  yet  hanging  on  the  wall  of  the  wrecked  par- 
lour, conceived  a  horror  of  the  Troll-like  creature  in  its  big 
helmet,  and  the  full-sized  oilskins  that  hung  in  folds  about 
its  diminutive  body,  the  skirts  reaching  nearly  to  the 
ground.  When  the  two  passed  beyond  the  mirror's  area 
of  reflection,  the  doubt  whether  they  might  not  have  dis- 
covered his  whereabouts  and  be  stealthily  creeping  up  from 

512 


Bawne  Finds  a  Friend  513 

the  rear  to  attack  him,  made  him  shudder,  and  brought  the 
perspiration  starting  in  the  hollows  of  his  sunken  temples 
and  cheeks. 

Minutes  passed.  He  waited  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
mirror.  Someone  was  approaching  from  the  direction  of 
the  Market  Place,  keeping  well  under  the  broken  walls  of 
the  houses  fringing  the  narrow  troUoir.  Where  an  avalanche 
of  tiles  and  brickwork  had  fallen,  he  must  perforce  skirt  the 
obstacle,  and  thus  for  an  instant  be  reflected  in  the  glass. 
Meanwhile  the  sound  of  nearing  footsteps — sometimes 
muffled  in  thick  dust,  or  clicking  over  cobblestones,  or 
tripping  and  stumbling  among  bricks  and  rubble — grew 
more  distinct.  The  red-moustached  giant  could  not  walk  so 
lightly.  It  must  be  the  Troll — could  be  no  one  but  the 
Troll'  The  suspense  of  waiting  had  tensed  into  unbearable 
agony  when  the  sound  of  a  voice  crying  broke  out  in  the 
deathly  silence  of  the  place. 

"Oh,  oh!"  Like  a  wom.an  or  a  child's  uncontrolled 
wailing.  "Oh — the  poor  men!  Oh,  the  poor  women  and 
the  li-ittle  ch-ildren!  Oh!"  and  da  capo,  working  up  to  a 
crescendo  of  agony,  and  dying  away  in  heartbreaking  sobs. 
It  was  so  strange — not  that  there  should  be  weeping  in 
these  razed  and  ravaged  streets,  but  that  the  voice  that  wept 
should  be  a  voice  of  England — that  it  begot  in  the  helpless 
man  who  heard  doubts  of  his  own  sanity,  and  a  reckless 
desire  to  dissipate  such  doubts.     He  heard  himself  call  out : 

"Who  is  crying  there?" 

And  a  treble  voice  piped  back,  and  stumbling  over  the 
moraine  of  debris  tongueing  from  the  avalanche  of  broken 
tiles  and  masonry,  came — not  the  Troll-dwarf  in  his  huge 
disguising  helmet  and  outsized  pneumatic  jacket — but  an 
urchin  of  twelve  or  thirteen — in  the  familiar  dress  of  a  Boy 
Scout — minus  the  smasher  hat  and  staff. 

' '  Me  for  the  gay  old  life ! ' '  meditated  Franky .     ' '  Thought 

I  was  getting  groggy  in  the  upper  works — and  now  I  know 

it !     A  British  Boy  Scout  in  his  little  khaki  shirt,  with  a  row 
33 


514  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

of  gadgets  on  his  left  sleeve,  and  ribbon  tags  to  his  little 
garters,  all  on  his  little  lone  in  the  middle  of  this — Ge- 
henna!" He  spoke  to  the  fever  that  galloped  through  his 
veins  in  the  tone  of  a  patron  presiding  at  the  test-display  of 
a  Cinema  Film  Company:  "Pretty  good,  but  you  can  do 
better.  Roll  along  with  a  troop  of  blue-eyed  Girl  Guides, 
old  Touch-and-Go ! " 

The  Scout's  figure  vanished  out  of  the  glass.  There  was  a 
sound  of  scratching  and  scrambling.  The  broken  floor  jarred 
to  the  impact  of  a  light  body,  and  a  boyish  treble  called: 

"Is — is  anybody  here?     Anybody — English?" 

The  voice  quavered  on  the  last  word.  Franky  knew  that 
this  was  delirium.  He  grinned  under  his  four-days'  beard, 
and  the  grime  and  soot  and  plaster  that  masked  him,  and 
answered  in  a  series  of  Bantu  clicks,  so  leather-dry  was  his 
tongue : 

"Me  as  per  descrip:  to  fol:  Young  British  sossifer  of 
good  fam:  irrepro:  ref:  and  tophole  edu:  badly  dam:  by 
Hun  shell !  Greatly  in  need  of  the  com :  of  a  ref :  Chris :  ho : 
Mus:  in  the  eve:  and  intell:  conver:  greatly  appre:"  He 
shut  his  stiff  eyelids  and  opened  them  again,  but  the  imagin- 
ary Scout  had  not  gone. 

* '  You're  dreadfully — hurt.  Couldn't  I  do — something ? ' ' 
the  treble  voice  piped.  Its  owner  was  now  squatting  on  his 
heels  in  the  shade  of  Franky's  penthouse  of  planks.  The 
knuckles  he  rested  on  the  floor  were  cracked  and  grimy,  and 
his  deeply-freckled,  fair-complexioned  face  was  lined,  and 
anxious  and  thin.  His  blue  eyes  were  swollen  with  crying, 
though  his  sensitive  lips  wore  a  wistful,  crooked  smile. 
"You  are  real?"  he  asked  wistfully,  and  Franky  answered, 
huskily: 

"Rather!  In  fact,  I'm  a  lot  more  real  than  you.  Who 
are  you,  since  we're  gettin'  personal?"  He  repeated  slowly 
after  the  boy: 

"'Bawne  Mildare  Saxham,  Scout  No.  22.     Fox  Patrol, 


I 


Bawne  Finds  a  Friend  515 

331st  London  W.'  Seems  good  enough. "  He  shut  his  hot 
eyes  wearily.     "  But  if  you're  soHd — you'd  get  me  a  drink ! " 

There  was  a  little  stir.  The  Scout  had  gone.  Franky 
knew  it  without  opening  his  eyes,  yielding  to  the  deadly 
sinking  faintness  engendered  by  the  effort  of  speech.  A 
mountainous  weight  crushed  his  chest,  and  his  legs  were  cold 
and  heavy  as  ingots  of  pig-iron.  It  occurred  to  him  that  at 
this  rate  the — wind-up — could  not  be  far  off.  And  a  great 
horror  fell  upon  him  like  a  pall,  and  cold  sweat  broke  forth 
and  streamed  upon  his  haggard  face  and  broken  body. 
Death  for  one  who  so  loved  Life  and  the  pleasant  things  of  a 
commonplace  existence.  ...  A  cricket-match,  a  day  with 
the  hounds,  a  funny  revue,  a  game  of  polo,  a  break  at  bil- 
liards, a  clinking  run  with  the  car,  a  fine  cigar.  Mess  in 
camp  after  the  hard  day's  march,  long,  cool  drinks  with  bits 
of  ice  tinkling  in  the  tumbler.  That  new,  fierce  pleasure 
tasted  in  his  first  experience  of  real  fighting.  .  .  .  And  oh ! 
how  much  sweeter  than  these  the  scent  of  Margot's  hair,  the 
light  of  Margot's  eyes,  the  clasp  of  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
the  hope  of  fatherhood,  never  now  to  be  realised.   .  .  , 

"My  little  chap!"  he  muttered,  and  his  heart  wept,  but 
no  tears  came  to  his  arid  eyes.  Then  something  cold 
touched  his  mouth.  The  rim  of  a  cup  with  water  in  it. 
"Thank  you!"  he  said,  after  a  gulping  draught,  opening  his 
eyes  with  the  sense  of  reviving  coolness  stealing  through  his 
parched  vitals.     "That's— absolutely  IT!" 

The  boyish  treble  said  with  a  quaver  in  it : 

"If  I  set  this  can  beside  you — I  got  the  water  from  the 
pipe  that  is  running — and  the  broken  cup  near  it,  could  you 
manage  to  dip  it  in?     Are  you  able  to  move  this  hand?" 

"First  class!"  whispered  Franky,  lifting  the  member  a 
very  little  way  and  dropping  it  again.  "The — the  other 
arm  came  in  for  it  when  the  shrapper  hit  me  in  the  ribs. 
.  .  .  Halloa!  Chocolate,"  for  a  bit  touched  his  lips  and 
was  gently  pushed  between  them.  "That  reminds  me. 
I've  an  iron  ration  somewhere  about  me.     No — they  took 


5i6  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

my  pack  off  when  I  got  crumped  up. "  It  had  seemed  only 
— decent  to  Franky  in  those  days  of  endless  foot-slogging,  to 
carry  a  pack  and  a  Lee-Enfield  and  fare  no  better  than  his 
men.  "Frightfully  obliged.  But  I  won't  take  this. "  This 
being  another  scrap  of  chocolate.  "  Is  thy  servant  a  Boche 
that  he  should  stodge  kid's  grub?" 

"You're  English!"  The  blue  eyes  were  full  of  hungry 
worship.  "Man  alive!"  quavered  the  boyish  treble,  "you 
don't  know  how  I've  wanted  to  hear  an  English  voice  again. 
Tell  me" — he  panted  and  was  pale  under  his  multitudinous 
freckles,  and  the  beating  of  the  childish  heart  shook  the  thin 
young  frame — "the  Germans  haven't  beaten  England — 
and  sunk  our  Navy,  and  wiped  out  our  Army — and  killed 
the  King,  and  Lord  Roberts,  and  the  Chief  Scout,  and  Lord 
Kitchener,  and — and  my  father  and  mother  and  every- 
one?" 

"No!"  said  the  wounded  man,  and  his  faint  whisper  was 
as  convincing  as  though  the  negative  had  been  shouted  with 
the  full  strength  of  vigorous  lungs.  "  Is  that  the  kind  of  lie 
they've  been  pitching  you?  Perhaps  it  does  'em  good  to 
believe  it'     Let  'em,  if  they  Hke.     It'll  never  be  true!" 

"  I  knew  it  couldn't ! "  The  clear  treble  had  lost  its  qua- 
ver. "And  yet  there  were  times  when  I  was  funky.  He 
seemed  so  awfully  sure  at — the  beginning!  And — the 
Enemy  never  stops — rubbing  it  in ! " 

"Who  is  the  Enemy?" 

"His  name  is  von  Herrnung.  And — and  I  must  go  now, 
for— for  your  sake."  The  eyes  flickered,  and  their  pupils 
dilated  to  wide  circles  of  frightened  blackness.  "He  might 
wake  up — and  come — and  find  you.  And  if  he  found 
you 


When  the  arteries  have  been  almost  depleted  by  haemor- 
rhage, and  the  strength  of  the  body  has  ebbed  to  vanishing 
point,  the  brain  is  sometimes  dazzlingly  clear.  Thus,  though 
the  faint  whisper  barely  reached  the  ear  of  the  other,  the 
haggard  eyes  looking  out  of  the  begrimed  and  unshaven  face 


Bavvne  Finds  a  Friend  517 

of  the  man  lying  in  the  blood-soaked  stretcher  were  alert 
and  observant.     He  said  reassuringly: 

"He  won't  come  just  yet.  Tell  me  more  about  him,  and 
all  about  yourself." 

How  strangely  lined  and  pinched  and  puckered  was  the 
young  face  with  its  clear  red-and-white  sprinkled  over  with 
brown  freckles.  Fine  dust  of  dew-beads  started  upon  fore- 
head and  temples  and  cheeks,  the  half-opened  mouth 
twitched  nervously,  though  he  thrust  out  his  under-jaw 
and  knitted  his  reddish  brows  in  a  gallant  effort  of  self- 
control. 

"His  name  is  von  Herrnung.  He  is  the  German  Field 
Flight  officer  who  took  me  away  from  England.  I  wrote 
down  the  date  in  my  Scout's  pocket-book  so  that  I  mightn't 
forget.  It  was  July  i8th.  He  was  trying  Mr.  Sherbrand's 
hawk-hoverer  at  Hendon.  He  asked  me  to  go  up  with 
him " 

"Great  Snipe!"  panted  Franky  weakly.  "Are  YOU  the 
boy  who  dropped  the  wallet  with  the  Clanronald  Papers  and 
the  scratched  message  in  the  North  Sea?" 

The  blue  eyes  understood.  "There  was  a  wallet,"  said 
their  owner.  "I  don't  know  what  was  inside,  of  course. 
But  he " 

A  spasm  of  trembling  went  through  the  slender  body.  He 
bent  his  head,  and  blinked  his  eyes,  and  the  muscles  of  his 
throat  and  jaw  worked  as  though  he  fought  down  an  hysteri- 
cal access  of  tears.  And  a  broad  shaft  of  golden  light, 
falling  on  the  young  bare  head,  showed  how  the  shining  red- 
brown  hair  had  been  roughly  clipped  in  ridges,  leaving 
a  forehead-tuft  oddly  streaked  with  white.  Amongst  the 
crowds  of  homeless  exiles  endlessly  streaming  along  the 
roads  of  this  scourged  and  tortured  country,  or  crouching 
amongst  the  wreckage  of  its  ruined  villages  and  battered 
towns,  heads  even  younger  than  this  boy's  had  displayed 
the  tragic  sign. 

"  Poor  kid!"  Franky  muttered,  recognising  it  as  the  result 


5i8  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

of    overwhelming    physical    shock    and    unnatural    mental 
strain.     "  He  knew  what  was  inside  ?  ..." 

"  I  don't  think  so !  If  he  had  known  when  the  submarine 
picked  us  up  in  the  North  Sea— I  think  he  would  have  killed 
me!  He  would  like  to  kill  me  now,  he  says" — the  apple  in 
the  boy's  throat  jerked— "because  through  me  he  has  been 
degradiren — reduced  from  Captain  to  Supernumerary  Officer 
Pilot— and  has  had  his  Third  Class  of  the  Red  Eagle  taken 
away!     That  was  done  at  the  big  Wireless  Station — Nor- 

deich,  they  called  it " 

"Nordeich.  .  .  .  Of  course  .  .  .  in  German  West  Fries- 
land.  Thrash  along— I'm  following  you.  Did  they  Court 
Martial  the  Flying  Man?"  Franky  whispered;  and  Bawne 
whispered  back: 

"  The  Emperor  punished  him !  ..." 
"The  Emperor,  did  you  say?  ..." 
"Yes.     He    came    to    Nordeich— in—     I've    forgotten 
what  they  call  it  when  great  people  want  to  move  about 
without  red  carpets  and  lots  of  fuss." 
"Incognito." 

"Incognito.  He'd  broken  off  his  yachting-trip  in  Nor- 
wegian waters — and  landed  at  Kiel  only  that  day.  I  heard 
men  whisper  it.  .  .  .  He  was  dressed  in  the  field-grey,  like 
his  War  Minister  von  Falkenhayn— and  his  generals  of  the 
Imperial  Staff— and  all  the  other  officers  and  men.  But  he 
'stripped  off  the  War-harness, '—that's  what  they  called  it! 
— before  he  got  into  the  Potsdam  train." 

"Go  on!  .  .  .  What  did  he  look  like?  .  .  .  They  say 
he  has  changed  a  lot  o'  late. " 

"I  couldn't  tell.  I'd  only  seen  photos  that  made  him 
look  younger  and  hid  his  short  arm.  But  even  if  he  hadn't 
sat  while  the  others  stood— and  worn  the  Iron  Cross,  Grand 
Class— and  the  Black  Eagle  with  diamond  swords  and  a 
Crown  Imperial — I'd  have  known  it  was  the  Emperor,  by 
his  eyes." 

"By  his  eyes,  you  say!  ..." 


Bawne  Finds  a  Friend  519 

The  boy's  heart  throbbed  visibly,  the  breath  came  in 
short  puffs  through  his  nostrils,  and  his  lips  were  twisted 
awry  as  he  smiled.  The  smile  stiffened  out  as  he  nodded. 
"By  his  awful  eyes!  .  .  .  When  they  looked  at  you  they 
made  you  feel  tired,  and  empty,  and — queer.  But  when  they 
got  angry — you  were  reminded  of — of  a  tiger  lurking  to 
spring  out  of  a  cave  of  ice ! " 

"Ah!     So  he  got  angry,  did  he?" 

Bawne  nodded. 

"When  I  wouldn't  answer  the  questions  he  asked  me — 
he  talked  English — about  how  the  brown  satchel  had  come 
unstrapped  and  tumbled  into  the  sea.  And  he  said  to  an 
officer:  'Show  him  your  whip!' — and  he  did — and  it  was 
short-stocked  and  covered  with  leather,  like  a  dog-whip — 
with  three  thongs  strung  with  little  balls  of  lead.  Man 
alive!  you  ought  to  see  my  back.  Though  they  only  hit 
me  once!"  He  winced,  and  flushed,  and  paled.  "I 
was  a  coward  to  squeal — though  when  they  asked: 
'Will  you  tell  now?  I  did  say:  'Not  to  stop  you  from  kill- 
ing me!' " 

"  Good  egg  you !  Great  Snipe ! — if  I'd  been  there.  With 
a  Service  Revolver — !     Nevermind.  .  .  .     Goon!" 

"I  forget.  .  .  .  Oh! — they  pulled  on  my  shirt  and  gave 
me  some  strong  stuff  to  drink.  Corn  brandy,  I  think  it  was 
— and  then  He  got  up  and  came  round  the  table  and  began 
to  talk  to  me.  He  said  I  must  not  be  an  obstinate  boy,  for 
in  another  few  days  there  would  be  War.  Our  pitiful  little 
Army'd  be  wiped  out  and  our  Fleet  sent  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea.  The  British  Isles  would  be  DeiUsch  Brittanicn — 
and  English  people  who  would  not  swear  to  be  good  Brito- 
German  subjects  of  their  new  Emperor  and  Overlord  would 
be  instantly  put  to  death.  But  if  I  told  up  about  the  brown 
satchel  I  would  be  permitted  to  live,  and  possibly  my  par- 
ents also.  If  I  said  No! — nothing  would  be  left  but  to  call 
back  the  officer  with  the  whip. " 

"Coaxin',  wasn't  he?     And  what  did  you  tell  him?" 


520  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"I  said:  'You've  only  said  you're  going  to  conquer  Eng- 
land, Sir.     You  haven't  done  it  yet!" 

It  was  not  merely  the  treble  voice  of  a  courageous  child 
answering.  It  was  the  utterance  of  a  race  untamable  and 
indomitable.  Franky  could  hear  the  metal  balls  on  the 
whip  clink  one  against  another  as  the  loaded  thongs  were 
shaken  out.   .   .  .     He  whispered  with  dry  lips: 

"Then ?" 

"Then  I  don't  quite  know.  I  was  sick  and  sleepy,  and 
the  blood  was  running  down  my  back  under  my  shirt.  If 
they  had  killed  me  I  wouldn't  have  cared  much.  Perhaps 
he  saw  that,  for  he  called  up  von  Herrnung.  He  was  not  to 
He  dismissed  from  the  Field  Flying  Service — because  of  the 
War  that  was  coming! — but  he  was  to  forfeit  his  Order  of 
the  Red  Eagle  and  rank  as  a  Supernumerary  Officer  Pilot. 
Man  alive! — you  should  have  seen  how  that  big  man 
squirmed  and  crawled  and  blubbered."  The  young  lips 
curled,  and  the  jaw  thrust  out  contemptuously.  "  '  Thanks ! 
Gratitude !  .  .  .  My  blood  to  prove  devotion !  .  .  .  All  I 
ask — the  service  of  danger — the  reconnaissance  under 
enemy  fire ! '     And  the  Emperor " 

"Kicked  him,  I  hope!" 

"  No,  he  said:  ' Supernumerary  Officer  Pilot  von  Herrnung 
you  will  now  to  your  Flying  Headquarters  return.  Let  it 
be  your  task  to  win  back  at  the  cost  of  a  thousand  lives — 
if  you  had  them — the  lost  esteem  of  your  Emperor.  Take 
this  boy  with  you.  Make  of  him  a  decent  German.  It  is 
"up  to  you,"  as  the  English  say.'  And  then  the  Wireless 
went  'S'ss!  Crackle!  PzzT  and  the  telephone-bell  said 
'Pr'rr  ! '  and  the  room  was  cleared — they  said  because  of  a 
Call  from  the  Winter  Palace  at  Petersburg." 

"And  where  did  they  take  you  after  you  left  the  Wireless 
Station?     Go  on — I'd  like  to  hear  you  tell!" 

The  boy  glanced  round  uneasily  and  then  mastered  his 
apprehensions.  The  grimed  hands  went  to  his  stocking-top 
and  pulled  out  a  squat  little  book.     The  coloured  present- 


Bawne  Finds  a  Friend  521 

ment  of  a  Boy  Scout  adorned  its  soiled  leather  cover,  and 
the  thumbed  leaves  of  the  diary  within  were  pencilled  from 
end  to  end.  The  Odyssey  of  a  Saxham  Pup,  one  might 
have  called  the  story  whispered  into  the  ear  of  the  wounded 
man  by  the  boy  squatting  at  his  side. 

One  had  been  taken  by  train  to  Bremen  and  thence  to 
a  place  called  Taubefeld,  in  West  Hessen.  Flight  Station 
XXX  was  here  on  a  vast  stretch  of  heath.  There  were 
rows  of  great  hangars,  and  a  vast  army  of  motor  floats 
and  lorries,  upon  which  machines,  hangars,  telegraph-instal-/ 
lations,  workshops,  mess-houses,  and  quarters  for  officers 
and  mechanics,  could  be  placed  when  the  mobilisation- 
order  came  and  transported  by  road  or  rail. 

One  had  fallen  sick  at  Taubefeld — the  efifects  of  that 
North  Sea  ducking.  One  had  waked  up  with  a  skin- 
cropped  head  wondering  where  one  was.  A  woman  who 
helped  in  the  cookhouse  had  given  one  broth  and  gruel  and 
the  medicine  prescribed  by  the  doctor.  One  had  crawled 
off  one's  straw  palliasse  weakly  and  shakily,  and  so  won 
forth  into  a  new,  unfriendly  world. 

One's  parole  had  been  taken — and  one  was  thenceforth 
free  to  move  about  and  see  things — when  one  was  not 
wanted  to  help  oil  or  clean  wires  or  sweep  up  the  hangars. 
There  was  grub  enough:  bacon-soup,  potato-salad,  and 
sausage,  queer  but  not  uneatable.  Nobody  was  really 
brutal  as  long  as  one  didn't  speak  English,  or  even  German 
with  a  British  accent,  too  much  at  one  time.  Keine 
Unterhaltung  da !  ("No  conversation  there ! ")  some  officer 
or  N.C.  would  yell  at  one,  and  the  rebuke  was  generally 
accompanied  by  the  swishing  cut  of  a  cane. 

Consequently  the  Saxham  Pup  had  bent  himself  to 
acquire  German,  as  spoken  by  Germans,  and  schooled 
himself  to  employ  his  eyes  and  ears  while  maintaining  econ- 
omy in  the  use  of  his  tongue.  He  had  found  out  his  where- 
abouts  from  an  envelope  he  had  picked  up,   and  other 


522  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

things  from  listening  to  the  officers'  conversation,  and  the 
talk  of  the  mechanics  in  the  big  hangars. 

War  was  the  thing  everybody  talked  about.  There  was 
going  to  be  bloody  War  in  a  twinkling.  The  German  Navy 
was  going  to  smash  the  British  Navy  into  matchwood,  every- 
body was  quite  sure.  The  German  Army  was  going  to  walk 
over  the  miserable  little  British  Arm}- — and  then  would  be 
expiated  the  sins  of  the  British  Government  and  the  diaboli- 
cal plottings  of  Sir  Edward  Grey.  Throat-cuttings,  shoot- 
ings, and  hangings  were  mentioned  in  connection  with  the 
above,  and  other  personages  whom  British  Boy  Scouts  hold 
in  reverence.  But  one  had  had  to  bear  it  and  hold  one's 
tongue,  and  keep  smiling.  That  was  the  method  of  the 
Chief  who  had  said  to  one:  "Quit  yourself  like  a  man.  " 

Brave  advice,  possible  to  follow  by  day  when  alien  eyes 
were  watching.  One  could  choke  down  weak  tears  and  the 
ache  of  the  lonely  heart  that  cried  for  Home  and  the  dear 
familiar  faces,  when  the  Birds  of  War  were  roaring  and  whir- 
ring up  the  flight-field  or  down  out  of  the  sky.  But  at  night, 
in  the  grim,  unfriendly  dark  of  the  sleeping-cupboard,  with- 
out other  witness  than  the  thin,  sore-eyed  white  kitten  that 
shared  one's  meals  and  slept  beside  one  on  the  hard  straw 
mattress  under  the  foul-smelling  grey  blanket,- — things  were 
harder.  One  had  got  through,  after  a  fashion,  by  "rotting" 
and  making  believe.  One  did  not  set  down  in  the  Scout's 
Note-Book  or  tell  the  wounded  friend  on  the  stretcher  how 
one  had  kissed  the  back  of  one's  own  hand,  and  whispered, 
"Good-night,  Mother!"  and  touched  one's  cheek  with  the 
tips  of  two  fingers  and  whispered,  "Good-night,  and  God 
keep  and  bless  you,  my  darling  boy!" 

Amongst  other  things  of  interest  picked  up  by  day,  one 
found  out  that  Supernumerary  Officer  Pilot  von  Herrnung 
was  cold-shouldered  by  the  officers  of  the  Flight  Squadron, 
which  he  had  captained  before  his  fall.  No  longer  top-dog, 
he  was  made  to  pay  for  his  domineering  and  swaggering. 
He  resented  this,  by  swaggering  more.     The  men  talked  of 


Bawne  Finds  a  Friend  523 

this  in  the  hangars,  as  they  tuned-up  wires  or  cleaned  the 
engines.  Von  Herrnung  was  Unglucklich.  Nobody  Hked 
him.  The  Squadron  would  not  stand  him  long.  Hadn't  he  in- 
sulted the  Herr  Squadron-Captain  Pilot  who  had  succeeded 
and  challenged  him,  and  got  his  cartel  back  again? 

"Colossal  insolence!"  he  had  firnied.  "A  challenge  from 
a  person  of  my  rank  confers  an  honour  on  him  who  receives 
it.  Not  a  man  among  you  stands  upon  my  level.  Deny  it. 
if  you  can!" 

"True,  very  true!"  the  Lieutenant-Observer  who  had 
brought  back  the  challenge  was  reputed  to  have  retorted. 
"Not  a  man  among  us  has  ever  been  degraded,  therefore, 
Herr  Supernumerary  Officer,  you  stand  alone.  And  we  of 
the  Field  Flight  do  not  regard  your  presence  among  us  as  a 
distinction.     You  may  possibly  conceive  that?" 

He  had  said  it  just  as  though  he  had  had  a  stink  under 
his  nose,  according  to  the  narrator.  And  he  had  dropped 
von  Herrnung's  letter  on  von  Herrnung's  table,  wiped  his 
fingers  ostentatiously  upon  his  handkerchief,  given  the  ghost 
of  a  salute — wheeled  and  gone  out.  After  that  the  whilom 
favourite  of  Fortune  had  turned  sullen  and  solitary,  and 
developed  such  desperate  recklessness  that  men  funked  to 
fiy  with  him.  Subsequently  the  Bird  of  War  hovering-gcar 
having,  after  due  examination  by  Government  experts,  been 
relinquished  to  its  captor,  he  had  had  the  mechanism 
adapted  to  a  Taube  monoplane,  and  thenceforward  made 
Her  Dearest  the  sharer  of  his  flights. 

You  are  to  suppose  Bawne  snatching  fearful  joys  in  the 
realisation  of  cherished  ambitions.  Loathing  and  fearing, 
he  yet  admired  the  big  red-haired  man,  so  superbly  brave  in 
the  air  that  seemed  his  natural  element.  Equally  the  man, 
detesting  the  child,  grudgingly  acknowledged  his  courage 
and  obedience.  No  queerer  companionship  may  have  been 
than  this  between  the  Enemy,  and  the  son  of  Saxham  and 
Lynette. 

When  the  Flight  Squadron  shifted  to  Aix-la-Chapelle, 


524  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

a  huge  seething  caldron  of  military  preparation, — "Does 
England  declare  War  against  us?"  people  asked  the  Flight 
officers.  "It  is  probable,  "they  answered,  "Gott  set  danke  !" 
Upon  the  Third  of  August,  starting  at  night,  Bawne  had 
made  a  long  flight  with  the  Enemy.  At  midnight  the 
Taube  had  hovered  over  a  great,  beautiful  city  twinkling 
with  millions  of  electric  lights. 

"That  is  Brussels  you  see  down  there,"  shouted  von 
Herrnung  through  the  voice-tube.  "The  city  is  en  fete 
because  of  the  agreement  arrived  at  between  the  Emperor 
and  the  Belgian  King.  That  means  England  has  lost  a 
friend,  and  made  another  enemy.  Do  vou  understand, 
little  English  swine?" 

And  von  Herrnung,  who  had  brought  a  Wireless  outfit, 
had  busied  himself  in  picking  up  messages  from  a  low- 
powered  installation  at  the  German  Embassy  and  trans- 
mitting them  to  Somebody,  high  in  authority,  who  waited  at 
Berlin.  He  had  grown  more  and  more  peeved  as  he  went 
about  his  business,  Bawne  could  not  tell  whv  but  Franky 
understood  quite  well. 

Belgium  had  not  been  content  that  the  Red  Cock  should 
perch  upon  her  British  neighbour's  roof,  while  her  own  house 
remained  unscathed  by  fire.  Franky  smiled,  knowing  this 
to  have  been  the  burden  of  the  song  sung  by  the  tuned 
sparks.  Broad  day  had  found  the  big  city  humming  with 
mobilisation,  enormous  placards  printed  in  the  National 
Colours,  with:  "Belgium  Refuses!"  and  "Roi,  Loi, 
LiBERTE,"  posted  in  all  the  public  places — and  a  park  of 
heavy  Artillery  concentrated  round  the  Etterbeek  Barracks, 
as  von  Herrnung  had  flown  back  to  Aix-la-Chapelle  on  the 
morning  of  August  4th. 

Bawne  went  on: 

The  Flight  Squadron  had  been  attached  to  a  Field  Artil- 
lery Division  of  the  Second  Corps,  under  a  General  named 
von  Kluck.  A  huge  man  he,  with  a  square  head  and  a  big 
mouth  full  of  broken  teeth.     Bawne  had  previously  seen 


Bawne  Finds  a  Friend  525 

him  at  the  Wireless  Station  where  he  had  been  taken  on 
landing  from  the  submarine. 

They  had  seen  little  of  the  aviation-base,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  hostilities.  The  Powers  that  Were  had  promptly- 
taken  von  Herrnung  at  his  word.  For  him  were  the  long- 
distance flights,  the  delicate  and  risky  missions,  the  danger- 
ous reconnaissances  over  the  Allied  batteries.  Driven  by 
that  gadfly  of  desire  to  regain  the  lost  distinctions,  he 
seemed  to  have  lost  all  sense  of  fear  and  to  bear  a  charmed 
life. 

Thus,  while  von  Kluck's  Advance  was  opposed  at  Mons 
by  the  stubborn  thrust  of  the  British  Forces,  the  Buzzard 
earned  his  nickname  by  his  tireless  quest  for  Death.  It 
eased  his  grudge  against  mankind  to  hunt  men — and  he 
hunted;  hovering  and  observing,  wirelessing  and  spotting, 
utilising  one  machine  for  many  purposes, — in  those  days 
when  War  Flying  was  as  yet  in  its  infancy — sniped  at  by 
the  sharpshooters  of  four  out  of  seven  British  Divisions — 
often  waging,  with  automatic  pistol  and  Krupp  machine- 
gun,  fierce  battles  with  other  Paladins  of  the  Wing,  on  the 
boundless  lists  of  air.  '" 

How  many  times  the  boy's  heart  had  cried  for  pity  when, 
some  brave  bird  crippled  by  a  spout  of  lead,  or  fired  by  an 
explosive  bullet,  had  gone  spinning  earthwards,  showing  the 
Three  Crosses  of  the  Union  Jack,  or  the  blue-white-red 
circles  of  France's  tricolour — or  the  red-black-yellow  of  the 
Belgian  Flag  tipon  its  upper  and  under-wings  as  it  fell. 

They  had  bombed  Paris  two  days  before,  and  bombed 
Ypres  that  morning,  starting  from  a  Flying  Base  near  the 
city  of  Bruges.  Bawne  knew  the  place  was  Ypres  because 
it  was  marked  in  red  on  the  roller-map.  The  British  General 
Headquarters  were  supposed  to  be  there.  All  the  bombs 
had  been  used  except  two,  and  the  Enemy  must  have  for- 
gotten to  get  rid  of  these  before  he  landed.  He  was  gener- 
ally careful,  but  not  so  when  he  drank  much.  And  lately 
he  had  drunk  a  good  deal,  there  was  so  much  wine  in 


526  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  country.  He  had  come  down  and  gone  into  the  restau- 
rant to  quest  for  food  and  champagne.  If  he  found,  he 
would  eat  hugely  and  drink  heavily,  and  then  sleep  himself 
sober.  He  always  slept  after  a  bout  before  taking  to  the 
air  again.  But  sometimes  when  he  had  mixed  drinks  he 
got  savage  instead  of  sleepy,  and  then 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  thrashes  you?"  Franky  inter- 
jected here. 

"Rather!     Just  look!" 

There  were  bright  red,  newly-made  weals  and  brown  and 
purplish  old  ones  on  the  little  muscular,  boyish  arm  from 
which  the  speaker  stripped  the  sleeve. 

"My  back  and  legs  are  lots  worse,"  he  volunteered  with 
the  air  of  a  showman.  "  I  sometimes  think  he'd  like  to  kill 
me.  But  he  won't" — the  blue  eyes  were  shrewd  under  the 
white-streaked  forelock — "because  of  what  the  Emperor 
said." 

"'Take  the  boy  with  you  and  make  of  him  a  decent 
German. '  For  fear  of  your  being  sent  for,  he —  Yes,  I 
-understand!  .  .  .  My  Christmas!"  Franky  whispered, 
opening  his  haggard  eyes,  and  the  fire  that  burned  in  them 
scorched  up  the  water,  "  If  I  only  had  the  use  of  this  bashed- 
up  body  I'd  jolly  soon  put  the  fear  of  God  into  the  howling 
brute!"  His  uncertain  hand  fumbled  about  the  butt  of  his 
Webley  and  Scott  revolver.  "  Shoot  him — and  make  tracks 
for  Headquarters  with  you  in  his  Taube.  Can't  fly  for 
monkey-nuts  though.     Can  you?" 

"A  little."  There  was  a  lightening  of  pleasure  in  the 
sombre  depths  of  the  blue  eyes.  "He  lets  me  do  plain, 
straight  flying  when  he's  sending  Wireless,  or  photographing 
or  observing.  I've  never  started  from  the  ground  yet,  or 
done  a  landing,  though  I'm  sure  I  could  if  I  tried.  He  has 
shown  me  lots  and  lots.  And  I  do  what  he  tells  me."  The 
forehead  knitted  under  the  ragged  piebald  forelock.  "He 
bluffs  about  shooting  me  if  I  don't  obey.  But  before  I 
drink  brandy  or  do  other  things  that  are  blackguardly — or 


Bawne  Finds  a  Friend  527 

throw  bombs  on  the  British  and  the  Allies,  he  shall  kill  me ! 
I've  told  him— and  he  knows  I'll  keep  my  word." 

"I  pipe.  And  can't  you  manage  to  do  a  flip  on  3^our 
own, "  came  back  in  the  nearly  extinguished  voice  from  the 
sunken  chest  of  the  helpless  figure  on  the  blood-soaked 
stretcher.  "One  o'  these  fine  days  when  von  Thingamy 
isn't  wide?  What's  to  hinder  your  getting  away  now  and 
pushing  South  to  meet  the  British  Advance-guard?  We 
blew  up  the  bridge  when  we  left  the  town,  but  it's  up  to  you 
to  swim  the  river.     Or  cross  with  a  barrel  or  a  plank. " 

"Yes.  And  I've  often  planned  to  bunk  it!  But — Man 
alive! — he's  frightfully  clever.  He  knows  a  Scout  sticks  to 
his  Word  of  Honour — and  he  always  asks  for  my  Parole." 

"F'f!  That's  a  poser,  old  son."  Franky  considered. 
"  If  I  were  in  your  shoes  I'd  take  to  givin'  the  strictly  limited 
parole.  Two  hours — or  three — or  four.  .  .  .  There's  a 
chance  if  the  time  expires  without  renewal — of  being  able 
to — perpetuate  a  strictly  honourable  bunk.  So,  best  Kid, 
live  in  hopes  and  watch  out  for  chances,  and  one  day " 

The  speaker's  voice  trailed  off  into  indistinctness.  A 
deadly  vertigo  came  upon  him.  He  sank  amidst  swirling 
waves  of  grey  nothingness,  to  emerge  after  aeons,  to  con- 
sciousness of  the  morning  sunshine,  and  the  warm  rain 
dropping  on  his  clammy  cheek  and  hand. 

"Oh,  oh!  I  thought  you  were  dead!"  It  was  the  wail- 
ing voice  he  had  heard  long  ages  back.  "Like  all  the  other 
people.  .  .  .  The  poor  men  and  women  and  the  little 
children " 

"  Dead !  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Only  shamming  for  a  drink.  " 
Frankly  whispered,  as  the  cup  with  its  blessing  of  cool  water 
revisited  his  baked  lips:  "Look  here.  Where  did  you  tell 
me  your  Flying  Devil  was?" 

The  boy  said,  with  a  scared  glance  through  the  breached 
front  wall  of  the  baker's  parlour,  out  into  the  street  where 
the  golden  sunshine  played  upon  Wear's  havoc  and  deso- 
lation : 


528  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"I  said  he  went  into  the  restaurant  in  the  square  where 
the — the  dead  people  are  piled  up — to  hunt  about  for  wine. " 

"I  remember.     What's  that?" 

The  gaunt  eyes  rolled  towards  the  yawnmg  gap  where 
once  had  been  the  window.  The  white  lips  whispered, 
*'Did  you  hear?     I'll  swear  somebody  laughed." 

Both  held  their  breath.  Not  a  sound  reached  them 
except  the  sliding  of  some  debris  from  a  pile  of  shattered 
masonry,  and  the  gurgling  of  the  water  in  the  broken  street- 
main.     Franky  mustered  breath  and  went  on: 

"And  now  shake  hands  and  scoot,  my  son,  for  this  spot 
isn't  healthy.  Say  'Good-bye  and  God  bless  you ! '  And — 
if  you  didn't  mind — you  might  kiss  me" — the  uninjured 
hand  lifted  cliimsily  and  pointed — "here  on  my  forehead. 
,  .  .     Steady  on!     Hold  hard!     Thumbs  up,  old  man!" 

For  sobs  were  racking  the  thin  young  frame,  and  the 
bright  tears  were  running.     He  gasped  out : 

"I — I — can't  go  away  and  leave  you — to — to  die  all 
alone!" 

Die.  .  .  . 

The  dreadful  word,  at  last,  dropping  with  a  dull  shock 
through  the  wounded  man's  consciousness  as  a  heavy  stone 
sinks  through  deeps  of  black  water.  Swirling  rings  of  mist 
in  Franky's  brain,  threatened  to  close  down  and  blot  out  all 
things.  He  thrust  back  the  grey  menace  of  unconsciousness 
with  a  brave  effort,  whispering: 

"Die.  .  .  .  Rats!  What  are  you — talking  about ?  It's 
me  for  the  gay  life  every  time !  All  I've — got  to  do  is  to  lie 
here — and — wait  until  they  fetch  me.  .  .  .  They're  com- 
ing— before  to-morrow  morning — give  you  my  solemn 
word!" 

"You're  sure?" 

"Dead  sure.  Look  here — can  you  remember  my  name 
was  Norwater?  Captain,  First  Battalion  Bearskins  Plain?" 
The  stimibling  voice  went  on  as  the  boy  nodded:  "Well 
then,  I'd  like  you  to  put  in  a  word  for  me  when  you  say 


Bawne  Finds  a  Friend  529 

your  prayers,  sometimes.  I  might  have  a  little  chap  of 
my  own,  by-and-by,  to  do  that  for  his  Pater.  "What's  this, 
best  child?" 

A  black  wooden  Crucifix  with  the  Figure  of  Our  Lord  in 
white  plaster  was  being  held  close  to  the  dimming  eyes. 

"It's  a  Crucifix.  I  think  it  must  have  fallen  down  from 
the  room  that  was  above  here.  Won't  you  keep  it — to  help 
you  through  the  night-time — just  as  the  one  on  my  Rosary 
helps  me?  ..." 

"Good  egg!     Do  you  pray  to  it — and  kiss  it?" 

"We  pray — not  to  it,  but  to  Our  Lord  who  died  for  us 
and  lives  in  Heaven.  We  kiss  it — because  even  if  it  isn't 
pretty  it  is  His  Image — and  has  been  blessed  by  a  priest. " 

"Wipe  my  mouth  first,  please.  You'll  find— hanky  in 
my  pocket.  Thanks ! "  He  asked,  after  his  discoloured  lips 
had  touched  the  Feet  of  the  Crucified:  "Isn't  there  some- 
thing one  ought  to  say?  A  prayer — or  something!  Not 
much  time  now — before  they  fetch  me.  Tell  quick — what 
words  say!" 

"You  couldn't  have  anything  better  than  Our  Father. 
Our  Lord  made  that  prayer  Himself.  But  there  are  lots  of 
others.  The  little  ones  are  easiest.  Say :  'Jesu,  have  mercy 
upon  me .' ' " 

The  weak  voice  came  stumbling  after. 

"Jesu,  have  mercy  on  me!" 

"Jesu,  help  me!" 

"Jesu,  help  me!" 

"0  Thou  who  didst  die  for  sinful  men  upon  the  Cross,  have 
mercy  upon  me  a  sinner  ! ' ' 

The  glassy  eyes  stared  upwards  and  past  the  boy,  and  a 
thin  scarlet  thread  began  to  trickle  from  the  corner  of  his 
mouth.   .   .   . 

"O  Thou  who  didst  die — upon  the  Cross — mercy — me  a 
sinner!" 

The   stimibling   voice    trailed   away    into    silence.     The 
glazing  eyes,  meeting  Bawne's,  said  plainly:  "Now  go! 
34 


>  > 


530  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

And  as  the  boy,  blind  with  tears,  turned  in  obedience  to 
their  order,  a  dull  flame  leaped  into  them.  They  had  seen 
the  tall  half-length  of  a  big  man,  panoplied  in  the  goggled 
helmet  and  pneumatic  jacket  of  the  aviator,  bulking  in 
the  window-gap,  even  before  Bawne  knew  that  the  Enem}" 
was  there. 


CHAPTER  LXIV 

AT    SEASHEERE 

The  narrow  white  footpath  had  suddenly  led  nowhere. 
Patrine  had  found  herself  standing  at  the  edge  of  a  four-foot 
bluff,  looking  down  upon  a  grassy  plateau  that  gently  sloped 
to  the  brink  of  the  cliffs.  A  wire  fence  enclosed  an  aggre- 
gation of  stone-grey  wooden  buildings  dominated  by  a  flag- 
staff and  the  latticed  steel  tower  of  a  Wireless  installation. 
The  White  Ensign  flapped  lazily  from  the  halyards  of  the 
flagstaff,  there  were  three  hangars  at  a  little  distance  away. 
A  row  of  seaplanes  sat  on  the  grass  before  them,  and  some 
figures  of  men  in  overalls  or  the  familiar  Naval  uniform 
moved  in  and  out  and  about  the  machines  busily  as  ants. 
Where  the  grassland  stopped  at  the  cliff-edge  the  roofs 
of  other  hangars  showed,  that  were  built  upon  the  shingle. 
A  little  way  out  beyond  the  line  of  foam  where  the  long 
green  lips  of  the  sea  mumbled  at  the  wet  pebbles,  another 
row  of  seaplanes  lashed  to  buoys,  rocked  like  gulls  drowsing 
after  a  gorge  of  fish.  And  far  out  to  sea,  where  the  heavy 
trails  of  smoke  bannering  from  the  funnels  of  rushing  grey 
hulls  betokened  the  War  activities  of  the  Fleet  in  the 
Channel,  and  the  conning-towers  of  big  submarines  some- 
times pretended  to  be  little  stocky  steamers  sitting  on  the 
swell,  two  strange  bat-like  things  rose  and  circled  and 
swooped,  and  were  hidden  in  grey-blue  mists  to  rise  again, 
and  swoop  and  circle.  .  .  .  And  a  little  dinghy  with 
two  blue  figures  in  it  was  pulling  out  from  the  beach  in 
the  direction  of  the  anchored  planes.    - 

"Beg  pardon!     But — aren't  you  Miss  Sa.xham?" 
She  craned  her  long  neck,  looking  for  the  speaker,  and 
found  him  in  a  youthful  Flight  Sub-Lieutenant,  who,  stand- 
ing below  the  grassy  bluff,  was  looking  up  with  very  brown 

531 


532  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

eyes  at  the  tall  figure  in  the  narrow  skirt  of  tan,  white  and 
rose-pink  chequers,  the  low-cut  blouse  of  guipure  lace,  and 
the  knitted  silk  coat  of  rose-pink.  Buckled  pumps  adorned 
the  well-arched  feet,  clad  with  navy  blue  silk  stockings  of 
liberal  open-work.  She  sported  a  buff  sunshade  lined 
with  rose,  and  a  hat  of  rough  tan  straw,  trimmed 
with  quills  of  navy  blue  and  rose-pink,  sat  coquettishly  on 
the  beech-leaf  hair.  She  gave  the  boy  one  of  her  wide 
smiles,  evading  the  "Yes"  by  nodding,  and  with  a  cat-like 
leap  and  scramble,  he  was  up  the  grassy  bluff  and  standing 
before  her,  blushing  and  saluting  and  holding  out  a  scribbled 
paper-pad. 

"Forme?" 

"For  you — if  you're  Miss  Saxham.  It's  a  Wireless  came 
this  morning — from  your — from  a  great  friend  of  yours. 
Somewhere  in  France. " 

"Oh— thank  you!" 

She  pulled  off  a  loose  buff  glove  and  stretched  a  large 
white  hand  for  the  paper-pad.     The  message  ran: 

"6  a.m.  Now  leaving  Compiegne  for  Calais.  Seasheere 
in  jive  hours,  barring  accident.     All  my  love  to  you.     Alan." 

And  the  Lieutenant  had  thought  her  pale.  .  .  .  She 
kissed  the  paper  and  smiled  at  him  bewilderingly.  "  Lucky 
beggar,  Sherbrand, "  thought  the  Lieutenant.  "What  a 
glorious  woman!"  He  extorted  from  Patrine,  who  would 
not  be  twenty  until  next  August,  the  penalty  for  being 
built  on  a  grander  scale  than  other  daughters  of  Eve.  But 
she  was  asking : 

"Whom  have  I  to  thank  for  bringing  Mr.  Sherbrand's 
message?" 

"Flight  Sub-Lieutenant  Dareless — and  the  thanks  are 
quite  on  my  side."  He  phrased  the  trite  civility  punctili- 
ously, while  the  bold  brown  eyes  beamed  and  twinkled: 
"For  you're  IT,"  they  said;  "just— clippingly— IT!" 


At  Seasheere  533 

"How  did  you  know  me?"  began  Patrine. 

"  Picked  you  up  through  the  binnics  from  the  bridge,  ten 
minutes  ago.  "  The  slim  brown  hand  flourished,  indicating 
a  T-square-shaped  space  of  well-watered  turf  marked  off  in 
whitewash  lines  upon  the  green  aerodrome  below.  "We 
call  things  by  their  proper  names  so  as  not  to  lose  touch,  you 
understand?  The  short  stretch  is  the  Bridge,  and  the  long 
strip  aft  at  right  angles — that's  the  Quarter-deck.  The  big 
hut  No.  I  is  our  Wardroom — the  Wing-Commander's  cabin 
is  divided  off  from  it.  The  officers'  cabins  are  in  the 
small  hut,  No.  2,  and  the  Warrant  Officers  and  men  divide 
No.  3.  Of  course  we  lieep  watches  and  post  sentries — just 
as  if  we  were  at  sea.  That  Territorial  on  guard  near  is 
relieving  a  man  of  ours,  do  you  see?"  He  jerked  his  chin 
towards  the  moving  brown  figure.  "What  have  we  to 
guard?  Oh,  well,  the  hangars,  and  our  Wireless" — another 
jerk  indicating  the  latticed  steel  mast  surmounting  a  tele- 
graph hut  wedded  to  a  vibrating  dynamo-shed.  "We  get 
reports  from  our  patrols — most  of  'em  are  fitted  with  radio- 
apparatus — and  we  receive  and  transmit  messages.  Long 
distance?  Well,  rather!  We're  frightfully  swank}^  about 
our  Wireless  plant.  It's  Number  One,  H.P.  Not  big,  but 
jolly  powerful.     A " 

Six  clear,  silvery  double-notes  had  sounded  from  a  brass 
bell,  hung  beneath  a  little  white-painted  penthouse  sitting 
on  the  blue  strip  of  shadow  on  the  westward  side  of  the 
Wardroom  hut.  The  Petty  Officer  who  had  rung  the  bell 
exchanged  a  brief  word  with  the  Territorial,  and  went  back 
to  the  hangars  from  whence  he  had  emerged .  Patrine,  with 
her  heart  in  her  mouth,  asked  the  Sub-Lieutenant: 

"Was  that  a  signal?" 

"Only  ship-time,"  said  the  brown-eyed  one.  "Six  bells. 
Eleven  a.m.  And  our  man  ought  to  be  looming  up  in  sight. 
He  might  hit  Seasheere  now  at  any  minute.  In  fact,  he's 
nearly  an  hour  late.  " 

"You  don't — you  don't  suppose ?" 


534  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Fear  had  pinched  and  drawn  and  bleached  her  so  that  she 
looked  forty  behind  her  white  veil  with  blue  chenille  dragon- 
flies.  Her  pale  mouth  twitched  and  her  black  brows  knotted 
over  the  haunted  eyes  that  strained  out  to  sea.  The  paper- 
pad,  crunched  to  a  mere  wad,  dropped  from  the  hand  that 
unconsciously  released  it.  The  boy  picked  it  up,  thrilled  by 
this  peep  behind  the  scenes  of  another's  romance. 

"No,  no!  There's  no  fear  of  an  accident,  Miss  Saxham. 
Perhaps  a  bit  o'  engine-trouble — you've  got  to  travel  slow- 
ish  if  she  vibes  too  much.  Or  he  might  have  spotted  an 
Aviatik  and  delayed  to  have  a  biff  at  him — on  the  princi- 
ple that  ten  Hun-birds  make  an  evener  bag  than  nine.  We 
know  what  a  terror  he's  getting  to  be  with  the  Maxim. 
But  what  puts  the  fear  of  God  into  the  flighty  Taube 
quicker  than  anything  is  our  R.N.A.S.  Vickers'  gun." 

Ah,  did  he  know  how  horribly  he  tortured  her!  But  a 
grey  speck  showed  upon  the  delicately-misty  distance  east- 
wards, growing  bigger,  coming  nearer,  putting  miles  of  green 
white,  heaving  water  under  its  throbbing  engine  with  effort- 
less speed.  Her  glance  leaped  to  Dareless,  studying  the 
oncomer  between  narrowed  lids,  and  the  hope  that  had 
kindled  in  her  died  out  as  he  shook  his  head. 

"One  of  ours,  on  the  Home-flight  from  Belgium,  Miss 
Saxham.  Your  man  will  pick  up  much  higher,  and  to  the 
south-east." 

And  presently  the  latest  type  of  Fleet  hydroplane,  a  two- 
seater  Batboat  carrying  two  bareheaded  young  gentlemen, 
moaned  into  view,  chasing  its  own  wave-skipping,  flying 
shadow  at  full  stretch  for  the  shore,  came  down  in  a  long 
mallard-like  glide,  skidding  over  the  water  as  the  wild-duck 
does,  and  in  a  ruffle  of  glittering  spray,  continued  the  home- 
journey  in  the  character  of  a  mot  or -boat. 

Then  there  was  a  sharp  squib-like  crack,  and  from  one  of 
the  anchored  hydroplanes,  a  rocket  went  up  and  burst  in  a 
smoke-puff  that  hung  in  a  little  cloud  of  violet -grey  upon  the 
sunny  air,  and  from  the  hangars  on  the  shingle  under  the 


At  Seasheere  535 

bluff  streamed  figures  in  blue  overalls  or  grimy  shirt-sleeves, 
and  cheered  and  waved,  standing  ankle-deep  in  refluent 
water,  topped  with  creamy  sheets  of  foam.  As  the  Bat- 
boat  with  her  joyous  navigators  rushed  spluttering  to  the 
shallow  anchorage  and  tied  up  beside  the  Station  planes, 
megaphones  bellowed,  motor-horns  tooted,  somebody 
banged  on  the  ship's  bell,  a  cornet  struck  up  "Rule  Brit- 
annia!" very  much  out  of  tune.  .  .  . 

"Well  done,  you  two  beggars!  Oh!  well  done!"  trum- 
peted Dareless,  through  his  hollowed  hands,  and  turned  a 
beaming  face  on  Patrine  to  explain  that  the  hatless  navi- 
gators of  the  Batboat  were  Lieutenants  of  a  Flight  stationed 
at  Antwerp,  and  had  shared  in  the  Air  Raid  on  the  Zeppelin- 
sheds  at  Diisseldorf — early  on  the  previous  day. 

And  then  a  droning  song  had  come  drifting  down  out  of 
the  sky  to  the  south-eastward  with  a  buzzing  undernote  in  it 
that  Patrine  remembered  well.  Dareless  had  lifted  his 
head  for  a  rapid  upward  reconnaissance,  and  said  with  a 
flash  of  white  teeth  in  his  brown  face: 

"Thumbs  up.MissSaxham ! — this  is  your  particular  bird ! " 

And  Patrine  had  seen,  small  and  high,  and  shining  palely 
golden  in  the  sunlight,  the  shape  of  the  biplane  that  carried 
her  lover,  and  her  heart  knocked  twice  in  her  bosom, 
heavily,  as  they  knock  behind  the  curtain  before  they  ring 
up  at  the  Comedie  Franyaise.  A  Clery's  signalling-pistol 
had  cracked  and  been  answered  from  the  Air-Station. 
Mechanics  in  overalls  had  appeared  upon  the  green.  Then 
the  buzzing  had  stopped,  and  the  second  Bird  of  War,  rising 
higher  to  escape  the  backwash  of  light  airs  from  the  cliffs, 
had  launched  into  a  splendid  sweeping  spiral,  ending  in  a 
long  glide,  and  alighted  on  the  well-rolled  Station  aerodrome 
— and  Sherbrand  had  come  home. 

Surely  never  until  the  thought  of  Flight, — fonned  in  the 
brain-cells  of  Man  and  fertilised  by  the  lust  of  Adventure, — 
hatched  out   in  the  Bird  that  bears  the  Knight  of  To-day 


536  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

upon  the  air-path,  did  lover  return  to  his  lady  after  a  fashion 
so  wonderful  as  this. 

The  Flying  Men  have  always  been  coming.  In  the  Book 
of  Books  you  will  read  of  them.  Ecclesiasticus,  the  Preacher, 
foretold  of  the  day  when  a  Bird  of  the  Air  should  carry  the 
Voice,  and  That  Which  Hath  Wings  should  tell  the  matter; 
and  how  these  Winged  ones  rush  and  roar  through  the 
prophetic  pages  of  Ezekiel  and  Daniel,  you  have  but  to  open 
them  to  learn.  Their  shapes  like  locusts,  their  armoured 
bodies  with  great-eyed  headpieces  "like  those  of  horses 
prepared  unto  battle,"  the  noise  made  by  their  wings  in 
flight  "like  the  noise  of  chariots  and  horses  running  to 
battle,"  the  wheels  beneath  their  wings,  the  human  faces 
appertaining  to  them,  the  inward  fire  that  issues  from  them 
in  scorching  vapours, — are  described  with  fiery  eloquence  in 
the  Apocalypse  of  the  Apostle  of  St.  John,  when  the  Fifth 
Angel  sounds  the  Trumpet,  and  the  King  whose  name  is 
Exterminans,  the  Destroyer,  reaches  the  culminating  point 
of  his  terrific  reign  upon  earth. 

Flight  makes  the  world  no  more  joyful,  being  mainly  used 
for  purposes  of  destruction,  but  nothing  can  rob  the  Flying 
Man  of  his  shining  gloriole  of  Romance.  The  boy  who  was 
building  toy  aeroplanes  of  card  and  elastic  a  few  years  back 
has  rediscovered  the  Flying  Dragon  of  the  Cretaceous 
period,  broken  and  tamed  the  winged  monster  into  a  War 
steed,  and  thundered  down  the  forgotten  roads  of  the 
Pterodactyl  and  the  Rukh,  to  reap  shining  honours  upon  the 
battlefields  of  the  mutable  Air.  And  if  the  girl  who  chaffed 
the  boy  of  old  worships  him  to-day  as  St.  George,  Sir  Lance- 
lot, Sir  Galahad,  and  Le  Bon  Sieur  de  Bayard  rolled  into 
one,  who  shall  blame  her?     Not  I,  for  one! 

In  the  instant  of  reunion,  when  the  tall  brown  figure  came 
swinging  to  meet  her,  and  the  strong  hard  hands  gripped 
her  own,  Patrine  loved  him  more  than  ever.  Sherb rand's 
was  not  a  romantic  greeting,  but  it  thrilled  her  nevertheless. 


At  Seasheere  537 

"They've  asked  us  to  lunch  here,  but  it's  ready  at  the 
Cottage.     Shall  we  accept?     It's  for  you  to  decide." 

His  tone  had  indicated  his  keen  desire  for  the  tete-d-tete  in 
preference.  Disappointment  had  shadowed  his  clear  eyes 
when  Patrine  had  voted  for  luncheon  at  the  Air  Station, 
inwardly  longing  to  be  alone  with  him — to  be  alone. 

And  yet,  despite  the  longing,  the  haunting  sense  of  a 
sword  of  Fate  hanging  over  her,  Patrine  found  the  Ward- 
room lunch  a  jolly  banquet.  They  were  so  young,  those 
sunburnt  faces,  laughing  about  the  plainly-furnished  board. 
The  Wing-Commander  in  charge  of  the  Station  proved  to  be 
something  under  thirty.  To  Patrine,  occupying  the  place 
of  honour  on  his  right  hand,  he  did  the  honours  like  a  vet- 
eran. One  of  the  navigators  of  the  Batboat  sat  upon  her 
other  side,  and  Sherbrand  was  her  vis-d-vis. 

Sherbrand  was  altered.  She  knew  him  older,  harder, 
sterner.  .  .  .  Thinner  to  the  verge  of  haggardness,  with  a 
deep  vertical  furrow  graved  between  the  thick  eyebrows 
that  made  a  bar  of  blonde  fairness  against  the  red  of  his 
deeply-burned  skin.  He  had  gone  away  a  splendid  youth. 
Now  he  returned  with  two  silvery-yellow  stars  on  the  cuffs 
and  shoulder-straps  of  his  khaki  tunic,  a  man  seasoned  and 
tempered  as  a  bar  of  steel  in  the  furnace-blast  of  War. 

The  pleasant  meal  ended,  and  the  jolly  party  broke  up. 
Their  hosts  accompanied  them  to  the  gate  of  the  Station 
enclosure,  and  the  warmth  and  heartiness  of  Naval  tradi- 
tion had  been  in  the  farewells  that  had  sped  the  departing 
guests  upon  their  way : 

"Aurevoir!     All  happiness!" 

' '  So-long !     We'll  look  after  the  'plane  all  right ! ' ' 

' ' Adios !     Buenas  noches  /  "  ^ 

"Sayonaral" 

"SiedaT' 

"Good-bye  and  good  luck!  Now  all  together.  .  .  . 
Hip — hip — "  and  a  rousing  British  cheer. 


CHAPTER  LXV 

GOOD-BYE,  DEAR  LOVE,  GOOD-BYE  ! 

They  had  looked  back  to  smile  and  wave  their  thanks,  and 
an  aged  tennis-shoe,  scientifically  hurled  by  Dareless,  had 
knocked  the  cap  out  of  Sherbrand's  upraised  hand,  and 
raised  a  cloud  of  chalky  dust  from  the  surface  of  the  sunken 
road.  Under  cover  of  this  they  had  crossed  the  road  and 
climbed  a  slope  together  and  found  themselves  standing  in 
heavenly  lonelinesb,  with  the  sea  beside  them  and  their  feet 
upon  the  thymy  grasses  blotted  by  the  short  shadows  of  their 
tall  figures,  under  the  almost  vertical  sun. 

"Look!"  Sherbrand  had  said,  pointing  to  a  whitewashed, 
red-tiled  cottage  cuddled  in  a  hollow  some  quarter  of  a  mile 
distant,  girt  with  a  gay  frivolous  little  garden  full  of  bache- 
lor's buttons  and  sunflowers,  lavender  bushes  and  nasturti- 
ums yellow  and  red.  He  slipped  his  hand  within  her  arm 
and  pressed  it,  whispering:  "There's  our  Eden — and  my 
dream  has  come  true!" 

Her  heart  choked  her.  They  moved  on  together  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  her  elbow  resting  in  the  bend  of  his  strong  arm, 
and  her  hand  lying  in  his.  The  air  they  breathed  was  sweet 
with  heady,  nameless  fragrance,  the  burning  golden  light 
that  haloed  them  seemed  the  effluence  of  their  love.  An- 
guish and  rapture  mingled  in  the  chalice  of  the  perfect  hour 
for  Patrine.  Nothing  but  rapture  was  in  the  draught  for 
Sherbrand,  though  a  faint  fold  showed  between  his  eyebrows 
as  he  said  suddenly: 

"Hang  it!  I've  forgotten  to  ask  the  Station  fellows  to 
give  me  a  night's  shakedown.  However,  there's  a  decent 
hotel  in  Seasheere.     My  bag  is  still  in  the  machine,  by  the 

538 


Good-bye,  Dear  Love,  Good-bye      539 

way.  .  .  .     Did  you  send  someone  on  to  the  cottage  with 
your  traps?" 

She  began  to  falter.  It  was  coming.  .  .  .  But  his 
eagerness  delayed  the  moment  of  revelation.  The  track 
they  followed  dipped  down  and  they  found  themselves  in  a 
grassy  basin.  The  turf  cupped  up  on  every  side  and  they 
were  alone,  lidded  by  the  blazing  turquoise  sky. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  green  nest  he  stopped,  and  next 
moment  his  embrace  enveloped  her.  She  forgot,  as  an 
answering  flame  burned  in  her  blood,  all  the  things  that  she 
had  meant  to  say.  "I'll  have  my  hour,  "  shot  through  her 
whirling  brain,  "I  must  have  something  of  him  to  keep  in 
remembrance.  He  has  never  loved  me — nor  I  him — so 
passionately  as  now.     Oh,  my  God!" 

He  released  her  with  a  happy  sigh,  and  they  sat  down  on 
the  shadowed  side  of  their  green  nest,  a  deep  dimple  in  the 
cheek  of  the  sunny,  smiling  Earth,  and  looked  in  each  other's 
eyes.  He  said,  as  she  took  off  her  hat  and  threw  it  aside 
and  turned  her  unveiled,  unshadowed  face  back  to  his : 

"Your  dear  cheeks  are  thinner,  I  fancy,  Pat.  Have  you 
been  worrying  much  about  me?" 

She  nodded,  thinking  of  her  sleepless  nights  passed  after 
reading  his  few  letters,  or  when  his  letters  had  failed  to 
come. 

"Pretty  badly — in  the  days  of  the  Retreat  from  Mons. 
You  piloted  that  French  officer  over  the  Channel  and — 
whiff ! — you  vanished.     What  has  become  of  him  ? " 

"Wing  Commandant  Raymond?  He's  riding  the  storm 
and  directing  the  whirlwind  somewhere  on  the  French  Front. 
I  got  my  orders  to  join  the  R.F.C.-unit  .acting  with  a 
rearguard  battery  of  the  Second  Army  Corps  as  soon  as  I'd 
dumped  him.  As  for  the  work  with  the  battery,  it  was 
always  the  same  thing.  We  flew  out  against  von  Kluck's 
advance,  spotting  their  gun-emplacements  and  getting  the 
range  for  our  gunners.     And  under  us  a  dark-brown  river 


540  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

with  five  branches  rolled  South.  And  that  was  the 
Retreat." 

His  arm  was  round  her,  her  cheek  was  pressed  to  his,  her 
bosom  heaved  against  him.  She  turned  her  lips  to  his  in  a 
quick  kiss,  and  whispered: 

"And  when  you  came  down  out  of  your  sky  'like  pigeons 
homing  at  nightfall' — that's  a  sentence  in  one  of  your 
letters — d'you  recognise  it? — the  river  went  on  rolling 
still?" 

"Just  the  same,  without  a  break.  And  what  a — welter. 
Remnants  of  crack  infantry  brigades  tangled  with  the  rags 
of  cavalry  squadrons — grimy,  hairy,  ragged  chimney-sweeps 
with  bandaged  feet  and  empty  bellies,  and  blackened 
tongues  hanging  out,  and  blind,  blank,  staring  eyes.  .  .  . 
Imagine  all  the  toy  soldier  outfits  in  the  kiddy-shops  of 
Regent  Street  emptied  into  the  gutters  and  you'll  get  an 
idea  of  what  the  thing  was  like.  .  .  .  And  Transport  and 
Supply-columns  jumbled  with  bits  of  R.G.A.  batteries  and 
R.F.A. — three  dying  horses  to  a  howitzer,  and  one  gunner 
left  out  of  six!  Bands  of  refugees  and  troops  of  stragglers. 
Lunatics  led  along  howling  and  gibbering.  Lorries,  carts, 
and  motor-vans  crammed  with  swollen-footed  cripples — ■ 
cheek  by  jowl  with  bloody  spectres  evacuated  from  Field 
Hospitals  that  were  reddening  the  sky  with  their  burning 
in  the  rear.  A  day-and-nightmare  to  haunt  one  for  ever  if 
the  end  had  been  different- — "  He  caught  his  breath. 
"But  when  I  remember  that  we  straightened  the  muddle — 
brought  Order  out  of  Chaos— turned  on  the  Germans  and 
bit  to  the  bone — I  pray  that  the  memory  may  stay  with  me 
always,  so  that  I  may  teach  your  sons  and  mine  what  it 
means  to  be  Englishmen ! " 

"  Oh,  Alan!  My  poor  boy!  ..."  She  caught  him  in  her 
arms  with  sudden  passion,  strained  him  to  her  and  then 
freed  herself  from  him,  and  moved  away,  signing  to  him  that 
he  must  not  approach.  "What  you  hope  for  can  never  be! 
I'd  have  told  you  this  before  if  I'd  been  decent,  but  I  wanted 


Good-bye,  Dear  Love,  Good-bye      541 

your  kisses — I  was  hungry  for  the  touch  of  you — and  the 
sound  of  your  voice  in  my  ears  after  all  these  weeks  and 
weeks " 

"  Then  why  do  you  say  it  can  never  be — and  tell  me  in  the 

.  same  breath  that  you  long  for  me  and  love  me  ? "     His  light 

brows  were  drawn  into  a  heavy  line  over  his  stern  grey  eyes. 

"Aren't  you  and  I  going  to  be  married?     Is  it  possible  that 

you'd  draw  back — now  ? ' ' 

"Because  your  wife  should  be  a  pure  woman,  and  I  am 
not,  it  is  possible.  Don't  move!  Don't  come  nearer!  If 
you  do  I'll  never  have  the  courage  to  tell — ^what  must  be 
told!" 

And  he  had  sat  still,  as  a  figure  in  carved  khaki -coloured 
stone  with  his  knees  apart  and  his  knotted  hands  hanging 
between  them,  and  his  eyes,  curiously  hard  and  pale  against 
the  strong  red  sunburn  of  his  face,  fixed  immovably  upon  her 
mouth.  When  she  ended  there  had  been  a  great  silence ;  and 
she  had  looked  up  at  the  azure  dome  lidding  their  green  nest, 
wondering  why  the  burning,  perfumed  breeze  had  suddenly 
turned  cold.     His  voice  recalled  her: 

"Why  have  you  told  me  this?" 

"To  be  honest. "  She  hugged  her  knees.  "To  give  you 
a  chance  for  freedom  before  you  were  handicapped  with  me 
for  life,  poor  boy!" 

"And  how  do  you  suppose  it  makes  me  feel?"  He 
breathed  roughly,  and  gritted  his  teeth,  wringing  his  hands 
in  one  another  so  strongly  that  the  knuckles  started  death- 
white  against  the  reddened  skin.  She  heard  herself  saying 
lamely : 

"I  knew  you'd  be  horribly  sick  about  it  and  hate 
me!" 

"I  don't  hate  you.  But  I  want  to  kill  hint!  He  took 
you  to  that  damnable  place  and — "  He  bit  his  lip  and 
swallowed.  "How  long  was  that  before  I  met  you  at 
Hendon?  Three  days — and  our  day  of  meeting — the 
meeting  I  thanked  God  for! — was  July  i8th.     This  is  Octo- 


542  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

ber — the  14th — to  be  particular.  You  must  know  what  I'm 
driving  at.     Is  there — any  danger " 

She  said  in  a  level  voice,  looking  at  him  steadily: 

"  I  have  deserved  it — but  I  think  God  is  going  to  be  kinder 
to  me  than  to — punish  me  in  that  way. ' '  Her  eyes  flickered 
and  fell  from  his.  "It  was  because — I  was  so  awfully  afraid 
at  first  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  marry  you.  And  now — 
and  now  you  know  the  very  worst  of  me. " 

"Hardly  the  worst."  He  drew  breath  roughly,  and  the 
cloud  upon  his  forehead  lightened  a  little.  "We'd  have 
been  man  and  wife  before  I  flew  for  France — if  you'd  let  me 
have  my  way.     Why  didn't  you?" 

"I —  Oh! — It  seemed  so  mean.  ...  A  kind  of  child- 
stealing.  You  were  so  unsuspecting,  and  so  generous,  and 
so  clean!"  She  bit  her  lips,  and  the  tears  welled  over  her 
underlids.  .  .  .  "You  shamed  me  into  being  straight  with 
you.  I'd  loved  you  from  the  beginning.  But  it  was  as 
though  my  love  had  left  off  crawling  and  grown  a  pair  of 
Avings." 

"Answer  me  straight."  He  turned  so  as  to  face  her. 
"'Did  you  ever  love  that  German?" 

' '  To  my  shame  be  it  spoken — never  for  an  instant !  After 
that  night  at  the  Upas  I  hated  him  unspeakably.  Only 
when  I  thought  he  was  dead,  I  began  to  let  up  a  little  on  the 
bate." 

He  looked  at  his  hands  and  unknotted  them  and  knotted 
them,  and  said  suddenly: 

"You  may  be  interested  to  know  that  he  is  not  dead,  but 
very  much  the  other  thing.  He  is  scouting  and  spotting  for 
von  Kluck's  gunners  on  their  south  and  west  Fronts,  and 
sometimes  bombing  positions  he  has  skried  out — and  doing 
it  all  superbly,  damn  him !  He  has  been  degraded  to  the 
rank  of  a  Supernumerar}^  Flying  oflScer  for  some  breach  of 
duty  that  got  to  the  Kaiser.  And  he  has  evidently  made  his 
mind  up  to  make  good  in  this  War.  They  pick  him  for  all 
the  dangerous  missions.     He  seems  unkillable — and  we've 


Good-bye,  Dear  Love,  Good-bye      54s 

tried  our  hardest.  And  wherever  he  goes — until  now  I've 
kept  this  from  you — he  takes — the  Saxhams'  son!" 

"Bawne!  ..." 

She  shaped  the  name  dumbly,  with  lips  that  were  pale 
as  poplar  leaves.  "God  forgive  me!"  her  conscience 
whispered.     "How  little  I  have  thought  of  Bawne!" 

"Yes.     I  mean  Bawne!" 

So  odd  was  the  contrast  between  the  speaker's  grim,  set 
face  and  the  bald  simplicity  of  his  language,  that  her  white 
lips  twitched  with  a  crazy  desire  to  laugh,  as  he  added : 

"I've  been  keen  for  a  long  time  on  coming  across  the  m.an 
who  pinched  my  hawk-hoverer  and  kidnapped  my  friend's 
son — and  putting  the  fear  of  God  into  him  with  an  auto- 
matic revolver,  or  a  Maxim.  .  .  .  But  now  that  I  know — 
this!" — the  deadly  contempt  in  the  voice  is  inconveyable — 
"a  clean  death  hardly  meets  his  case.  Good  cartridges 
seem  wasted  in  killing  that  fellow.  One  wants  to  set  one's 
heel  down — hard  on  him — and  scrunch!" 

He  had  sat  silent,  staring  before  him  yet  a  moment  longer. 
Then  he  gathered  himself  together  and  got  up  from  the  grass, 
glanced  at  his  wrist-watch  and  said,  holding  out  his  hand 
to  assist  her  in  rising: 

"Well,  let's  be  going.  It's  half-past  three.  They'll  ex- 
pect us  to  tea  at  the  cottage.  By  the  way,  you  haven't 
told  me.  Did  you  send  on  3-our  bag  from  the  station  when 
you  came?" 

She  shuddered  violently,  and  leaped  up  without  touching 
the  offered  hand.  The  west  was  all  dappled  with  tiny 
pearly  cloudlets,  their  shadows  were  lengthening  moment- 
arily, the  salt  smell  of  the  sea  was  on  the  breeze  that  came 
in  languid  puffs.  But  the  wine  of  jo}-  that  had  brimmed 
their  green  bowl  had  been  emptied  out  by  her  own  hand, 
and  the  draught  now  held  to  her  flinching  mouth  was 
bitterer  than  hemlock  and  blacker  than  Styx.  That  change 
in  his  face  and  voice — 

"  What  do  you  suppose  ?     I  brought  no  bag.     I  am  going 


544  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

home  by  the  next  train."  She  glanced  at  a  h'ttle  jewelled 
wrist -watch  he  had  given  her  and  back  at  the  mask-like  face, 
that  said: 

"You  mean  we  part  here,  for  good!     Is  that  it?" 

"For  good — or  bad.     My  poor  boy " 

He  put  her  "poor  boy"  from  him  with  a  gesture  of  the 
hand.     He  asked  in  a  flat,  toneless  voice: 

"Am  I  a  blackguard  like  von  Herrnung?  You  came 
down  here  to  marr}^  me.  What  will  be  said  afterwards — 
if " 

"I'm  past  caring  what  people  think  or  say!"  she  flashed 
at  him  angrily.  "I've  told  you  that  I  will  not  marry  you! 
— that  I'm  not  fit  to  be  your  wife.  Oh !  if  you  suppose  it 
didn't  hurt " 

A  rush  of  tears  drowned  out  his  altered  visage.  She 
turned  away,  fighting  for  composure,  summoning  all  her 
woman's  pride  to  help  her  at  her  need.  That  swaying  grace, 
that  alluring  physical  perfection — had  never  appealed  to 
Sherbrand's  senses  so  irresistibly.  .  .  . 

"Patrine!" 

She  heard  his  eager  footsteps  following  her.  She  was 
snatched  into  his  masterful  embrace,  assailed  by  his  stormy 
kisses,  wooed  by  his  passionate  words  of  love  beyond  her 
power  to  resist.  The  flood  in  the  veins  of  both  was  rising, 
the  force  of  the  warm  rushing  torrent  was  bearing  them 
away,  she  cared  not  whither,  so  that  she  might  keep  those 
arms  about  her  still. 

"Patrine!  My  woman  of  women — do  you  think  I'd  let 
you  go  from  me ?  Not  I !  I'll  have  you  for  my  wife  whether 
you  will  or  no!  We'll  forget — ^all  that!  We'll  be  happy 
in  spite  of  it.     Won't  we?" 

"No!"  she  gasped  out. 

"We  will,  I  tell  3^ou!"  He  laughed  out  with  ringing 
triimiph  and  bent  his  head,  seeking  her  evasive  mouth  with 
his  own.     Hard  pressed  she  had  panted: 

"Don't  ask  me  to  marry  you!     I'd  never,  never  do  it! 


Good-bye,  Dear  Love,  Good-bye      545 

Unless  you  were  poor  and  sick  and  a  nobody — and  wanted 
a  woman  to  nurse  and  work  for  you.  .  .  .  Then — the  wag 
of  a  finger  or  the  wind  of  a  word  would  bring  me  to  you. 
But — I  swear  it  before  God! — I  won't  marry  you  as  you 
are!" 

"You  will!" 

"I've  sworn  I  won't.  But — "  She  had  whispered  it  in 
a  kiss  of  fire — "I  will  give  you — what  that  other  man  took ! " 

And  Sherbrand  had  uttered  a  hoarse  sound  like  a  sob,  and 
unwound  her  arms  from  about  his  neck,  and  said,  holding 
her  hands  close  in  his  and  looking  sternly  in  her  swimming 
eyes: 

"I'm  no  saint,  God  knows! — but  I'm  a  better  man  than 
to  take  what  you  offer.  Halloa!  That's  Davis.  What's 
up  now?" 

A  distant  whistle  had  made  him  prick  his  ears.  He 
whistled  back  and  ran  lightly  up  to  the  brink  of  the  grassy 
punch-bowl  in  time  to  meet  the  little  black-avised  Welsh- 
man— hero  of  the  Paris  episode  in  connection  with  the  girl 
with  the  goo-goo  eyes.  Davis  had  handed  him  a  paper-pad. 
Sherbrand  had  read  it,  scrawled  a  reply  en  the  blank  side 
to  be  dispatched  by  the  Static n's  Wireless,  and  hurried  back 
to  Patrine. 

"We — couldn't  have  been  married  to-morrow  anyway. 
The  man  who  undertook  to  replace  me  while  I  went  on  leave 
has  been  killed  doing  reconnaissance  on  our  new  Front  in 
North-West  France.     I'm  recalled." 

"Recalled?" 

He  nodded.  The  British  Force  had  been  deftly  trans- 
ferred from  its  position  on  the  Aisne  to  a  base  at  St.  Omer, 
you  will  remember,  thus  blocking  the  Calais  Gate.  The 
New  Offensive  was  taking  shape.    Sherbrand  had  continued : 

"So — if  you're  to  catch  the  three-fifty  from  Fearnchurch 
to  Charing  Cross — we'll  have  to  run!" 

And  as  the  screech  of  a  distant  engine  had  sounded  from 
the  direction  of  Fearnchurch  Station,  he  had  caught  up 

35 


546  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  veiled  hat  and  thrust  it  upon  Patrine,  grabbed  her 
thin  rain-coat  and  vanity  bag  and  sunshade,  and  hurried  her 
back  to  the  flinty  railway-station  by  the  way  she  had  ccme. 
And  with  the  banging  of  the  carriage-door,  her  woman's 
heart  had  broken.  She  had  felt  it  bleeding  drip,  drip,  drip ! 
as  Sherbrand's  tall  bare  head  and  grave  sad  eyes  had  receded 
out  of  sight. 

And  the  train  had  been  delayed  at  the  next  station,  wait- 
ing for  the  passage  of  a  troop-train  crammed  with  eager 
faced  young  men  of  Kitchener's  Army,  concrete  answers  to 
the  famous  Call  to  Arms  and  the  First  Five  Questions — 
nearly  half  an  hour.  So  that  rounding  the  curve  beyond 
the  last  signal-cabin  for  the  clanking  journey  through  the 
short  tunnel,  Patrine  had  seen,  some  miles  to  seaward  of  the 
glittering  white  prow  of  the  North  Foreland,  a  biplane  with 
its  wings  reddened  by  the  sunset,  flying  south-east. 

"Oh!  good-bye,  Alan!"  she  had  whispered,  knowing  that 
she  would  never  see  her  Bird  of  War  again.  He  had  been 
caught  and  dragged  back  into  the  fiery  whirl  of  the  cj^clone 
without  the  hope  that  nerves  and  supports  and  brings 
adventurers  back.  Sorrowful  and  stern,  baulked  of  his 
heart's  desire,  grimly  bent  on  meeting  von  Herrnung,  and 
wreaking  retribution  for  a  horrible  wrong,  upon  the  red  head 
of  the  Kaiser's  Flying  Man. 


CHAPTER  LXVI 


MORE    KULTUR 


The  boy's  slight  figure  seemed  to  shrink  upon  itself  as  the 
stony  eyes  looked  at  him,  and  the  teeth  showed  under  the 
red  moustache,  not  tightly  curled  now,  but  stiffened  and 
pointing  to  the  eyes.  Von  Herrnung  set  a  foot  upon  the 
broken  wall  and  leaped  into  the  baker's  parlour,  staggering 
slightly  as  he  alighted  amongst  the  rubbish  on  the  broken 
floor.  He  had  been  drinking,  but  not  to  excess,  for  the 
restaurant-cellars  having  been  thoroughly  gutted  by  his 
countrj-men,  the  wreckage  of  the  bar  behind  which  Madame 
had  sat,  busy  with  her  embroidery,  had  yielded  barely  a 
half-tumbler  of  Cognac  and  a  single  bottle  of  Champagne. 

Having  drunk  enough  to  spur  memory  and  not  to  lull  his 
snarling  grievances  to  slumber,  he  had  come  forth  to  blunt 
the  tooth  of  his  bitter  hatred  on  the  boy.  For,  since  that 
queer  tickling,  pleasurable  sensation  experienced  in  his  first 
tantalization  of  Bawne's  hunger,  every  new  weal  marked 
upon  the  wincing  body,  every  fresh  bruise  inflicted  on  the 
shuddering  soul  of  Her  Dearest,  imparted  to  von  Herrnung 
a  ferocious  pleasure  in  comparison  with  which  mere  vicious 
indulgence  palled. 

"So,  there  you  are,  little  English  pig-dog,"  he  said  in 
German,  as  the  blue  eyes  met  his  own  and  fell  away  before 
them  and  the  colour  sank  out  of  the  young  face.  "Get  you 
back  to  the  Market-platz  there  and  wait  for  me.  I  have 
some  business  with  your  friend.  " 

He  stretched  out  a  long  arm,  picked  up  the  boy  by  the 
slack  of  his  garments,  and  with  a  turn  of  the  wrist  dropped 
him  into  the  street.  His  ears  were  pricked  for  the  cry  that 
should  follow  the  slight  scrambling  fall  of  the  light  body  on 

547 


548  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  rubbish.  It  failed  to  come,  and  he  frowned.  Presently 
—  Meanwhile  here  was  game  of  a  larger  kind.  He  looked 
down  from  his  superb  height  upon  the  bloodstained  figure 
in  the  stretcher.  Its  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  haggard  face 
beneath  the  grime  and  bristles  had  the  yellowish-white  of  old 
wax.  He  spoke  to  it  harshly,  in  his  English,  and  the  brown- 
ish lids  split  apart  and  the  gaunt  sick  eyes  glimmered  up  at 
him.  But  no  reply  came  from  the  livid  lips.  He  rapped  his 
foot  sharply  on  the  floor,  repeating: 

"I  suppose  you  know  you  are  my  prisoner,  sir?"  and  a 
strange  spasm  of  mingled  amusement  and  irony  twitched 
the  muscles  of  the  haggard  mask.  The  faded  negatives  of 
eyes  regarded  him  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile  in  them.  The 
dissolving  voice  said  in  tones  no  louder  than  a  sigh : 

"Possibly.     But  not— for  long!" 

The  voice  stopped  short.  As  von  Herrnung  took  a  step 
nearer  to  the  stretcher,  his  toe  stubbed  against  and  caught  in 
the  strap  of  a  leather  case  lying  on  the  littered  floor.  He 
picked  up  the  case  and  smiled  as  he  drew  out  a  costly  pair 
of  Zeiss  binoculars.  His  own,  though  hailing  from  the  Jena 
workshop,  only  magnified  to  12  x.  These  registered  25  x. 
On  the  metal  rim  of  the  larger  lense  was  engraved  the  style 
and  title  of  the  owner:  "Capt.  Rt.  Hon.  Viscount  Norwater, 
Royal  Bearskins  Plain." 

A  find  in  the  dual  sense.  He  restored  the  binoculars  to 
their  case,  unbuckled  the  strap  and  slipped  it  under  his 
heavy  bandolier  of  cartridges,  hanging  the  case  beside  his 
own,  loosened  the  upper  stud-clips  that  fastened  his  goggled 
helmet,  and  pushed  it  back  so  as  to  reveal  his  whole  face. 
The  gaunt  eyes  were  open,  looking  at  him  attentively.  He 
asked  them: 

"  May  it  not  be  that  we  have  met  before  '1  In  Paris,  yes  ? 
On  the  night  of  the  Grand  Prix.  At  the  Hotel  Spitz,  ja,  ja, 
gewiss !  A  dinner  given  by  Sir  Thomas  Brayham  for  Lady 
Wathe  and  a  few  friends.  You  were  one  of  the  friends.  I 
another.     How  is  the  old  woman,  do  you  know?" 


More    Kultur  549 

Kreutzdonnerwetter !  what  inconceivable  insolence!  The 
eyes  looked  through  him  as  though  he  had  not  been  there. 
His  hard  blue  eyes,  already  injected  with  blood,  grew  savage, 
and  a  purplish  tinge  suffused  his  florid  skin.  He  reflected 
an  instant,  pulled  a  capacious  silver  spirit-flask  from  the 
deep  side-pocket  of  his  pneimiatic,  half-filled  the  drinking 
cup  that  capped  it,  and  knelt  down  beside  the  stretcher, 
saying  quite  pleasantly,  in  his  gutturals: 

"See,  here  is  some  capital  Cognac.  Let  me  give  you  a 
sip,  eh?  Then  you  will  feel  better."  He  poured  a  dram 
between  the  teeth,  and  waited  through  a  spasm  of  coughing, 
wiped  the  blood  and  mucus  from  the  gasping  lips  with  a  rag 
of  the  torn  clothing,  then  pulled  a  stool  from  amongst  the 
rubbish,  sat  down  near  the  feet  of  the  wounded  man, 
facing  him,  and  took  a  long  pull  of  the  belauded  b~andy 
from  the  neck  of  the  big  flask. 

"That  does  more  good  than  canteen  coffee,  "  he  said,  and 
sucked  his  red  moustache  appreciatively.  He  set  down  the 
flask  on  the  floor  between  his  feet,  found  his  case,  and  care- 
fully chose  a  cigar. 

"A  zigarre?  No!  You  will,  then,  perhaps  not  object 
to  my  smoking?  We  of  the  Field  Flight  have  to  comfort 
ourselves  with  snuff  when  in  the  air.  To  burn  tobacco  and 
blaze  up  like  a  star-shell  and  come  down  like  a  charred 
rocket-stick,  that  is  not  at  all  agreeable  or  praktisch.  Sap-  . 
perlot !  you  are  not  a  ver}^  amusing  companion.  Neverthe- 
less, my  fellow,  I  drink  to  your  jolly  good  health!" 

He  knocked  off  the  ash  of  his  cigar,  cleared  his  throat,  and 
spat,  just  clearing  Franky's  shoulder.  The  flicker  of  anger 
in  the  sunken  eyes  brought  a  glitter  of  malice  into  his  own. 
He  sent  out  a  long  swaggering  stream  of  smoke,  and  knocked 
the  ash  from  his  cigar  with  the  little  finger  of  his  ringed  left 
hand,  continuing: 

"You  see,  I  have  cut  the  long  thumb-nail  that  amused 
you  when  we  met  in  Paris.  The  Day  has  come — though 
you  would  not  join  me  in  drinking  to  its  dawning! — and  the 


550  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

German  eagle  has  dipped  his  claws  in  English  blood.  We 
Prussians  have  beaten  out  the  iron  sceptre  of  World  Power 
with  giant  blows  upon  the  War  Anvil,  and  the  sun  that 
never  set  upon  the  swanky  British  Empire,  has  already  risen 
to  find  the  Roast  Beef  of  Old  England  in  danger,  and  the 
Triple  Entente  a  bankrupt  syndicate."  He  shrugged  and 
twisted  his  red  moustache,  tilted  his  big  body  sidewise, 
and  spat  at  a  carefully-calculated  angle,  missing  the  other 
shoulder  of  the  victim  as  he  pursued: 

"But  you  do  not  know  .  .  .  Donnenveiter !  how  should 
you? — lying  here  like  a  stuck  pig!  Yesterday — in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Ypres — took  place  the  ultimate,  con- 
clusive battle,  in  which  the  German  mammoth  pounded  the 
British  Lion  into  pulp.  Your  little  British  Expeditionary 
Force  may  be  said  to  exist  no  longer.  Your  Brigade  of 
Guards,  who  boast  that,  like  the  Samurai,  they  do  not 
surrender  while  yet  unwounded,  is  practically  extinct. 
Maddened  by  despair  the  officers  shot  the  few  men  who 
remained  and  then  blew  one  another's  brains  out.  Your 
Commander-in-Chief  is  our  prisoner,  Sir  Rothesay  Craig  has 
been  killed,  also  General  Callonby  and  General  Jones- 
Torrian.  The  French  Generalissimo  has  surrendered,  with 
the  5th  French  Army.  The  6th  French  Army  has  been 
chopped  into  sausage-meat.  So,  all  is  over!  Total  Ka- 
put!" 

"  If  what  you  say  is  Gospel, "  said  the  weak  voice,  and  the 
faded  eyes  had  the  ghost  of  a  smile  in  them,  "why  do  I  keep 
on  hearing  our  guns?" 

For  the  hurly-burly  of  battle  in  the  South  had  broken 
out  afresh  as  though  in  contradiction.  The  crazy  floor 
vibrated,  the  tottering  walls  shook  with  the  distant  fury  of 
sound : 

Thud — thud — thud — thud!  and  the  muffled  Boom! — Crash! 
of  immense  explosions.  And  through  all  the  steady  slog- 
ging of  Royal  Garrison  Artillery  howitzers,  and  the  tireless, 
dogged  hammering  of    Field  Artillery  eighteen-pounders. 


More    Kultur  551 

"Macht  nicht!" 

Von  Herrnung  shrugged  contemptuously,  though  his  keen 
ear  did  not  miss  the  fact  that  the  guns  were  coming  nearer: 
"That  must  go  on — for  a  Httle! — until  the  last  show  of 
resistance  is  broken  down.  If  it  be  a  military  virtue  not 
to  be  aware  when  you  are  beaten — your  big-jawed,  dull- 
brained,  short-headed  British  bull-dogs  of  soldiers  have  that 
virtue,  of  course.  But  comes  the  awakening !  The  Russian 
Navy  has  been  blown  off  the  Baltic,  the  Czar  has  accepted 
our  Kaiser's  ultimatum — the  Belgian  Government  has  made 
its  submission — the  Belgian  Army  has  laid  down  its  arms. 
Our  17-inch  siege-howitzers  are  bombarding  the  shores  of 
England  from  their  emplacements  at  Calais.  The  Army  of 
Invasion  is  embarking — your  British  Navy — the  floating 
bulwark  of  your  Empire — lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  North 
Sea.  Ministers  run  from  one  end  of  England  to  the  other, 
begging,  coaxing,  persuading — your  proletariat.  There  is 
panic  in  the  English  War  Office,  and  despair  at  Buckingham 
Palace;  rebellion  in  the  streets  of  London,  debacle  in  the 
City,  and  stampede  in  the  West  End.  To-morrow  the 
Emperor  of  Greater  Germany  and  the  Crown  Prince,  Vice- 
roy of  the  Brito-German  Possessions,  will,  with  the  Empress 
enter  Paris.  Ten  miles  of  films  will  record  for  all  Posterity 
this  colossal  and  magnificent  scene.  The  London  pageant 
of  triumph  follows.  Well  may  you  weep,  my  unlucky  fellow, 
over  the  collapse  and  ruin  of  your  proud  country" — for 
tears  were  really  trickling  from  the  puckered  eyelids  of  the 
now  flushed  and  quivering  face.  "  Ilimmelkretizbombenele- 
ment !  You  are  not  weeping.  You  are  laughing,  you  dirty 
English  swine! " 

"What  else  do  you — expect — when  you're  so — dashed 
amusin'?"  gasped  Franky  painfully.  "Roll  along  with 
some  more  of  it — why  don't  you,  Anatole?" 

"You  do  not  believe  me,  no?  You  think  that  I  am 
rotting,"  von  Herrnung  shrugged  his  huge  shoulders    and 


552  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

laughed  with  forced  heartiness.  "Always  to  rot,  that  is 
the  English  custom. ' '  He  added,  with  a  cruel  relish : ' '  Desto 
besser,  you  will  die  more  pleasantly.  For  of  course  you  will 
die.  This  is  the  third  day  you  have  lain  here,  Alter  junge, 
and  you  have  the  smell  and  colour  of  gangrene.  You 
are  a  lump  of  carrion,  Norwater,  not  worth  the  taking 
away!" 

"Possibly  not!" 

The  eyes  met  his  calmly,  though  their  laughter  had  died 
out.  It  angered  von  Herrnung  to  be  baulked  of  the  fero- 
cious enjoyment  he  had  promised  himself.  He  finished  the 
Cognac  slowly,  seeking  in  the  fiery  drink  a  spur  to  invent- 
iveness, and  sucked  his  moustache  slowly  as  he  capped  and 
pocketed  the  flask. 

"I  am  hellishly  sorry,  I  assure  you,  Norwater,"  he  said, 
adopting  a  bluff  and  hearty  manner  as  he  sucked  the  stump 
of  the  nearly  finished  cigar.  "One  is  hardened  to  death 
and  wounds  in  War,  but  one  is  human.  And  I  have  been 
on  friendly  terms  with  many  Englishmen  and  Angenehme 
Engldnderinn  such  as  Lady  Wathe,  whom  I  have  known  for 
years,  and  that  superb  brunette,  Mees  Saxham.  We  flirted 
desperately  that  night  in  Paris.  Later  on,  in  London,  she 
became  my  mistress " 

"You  lie,  you  aeroplane-stealing  cad!"  said  Franky, 
feebly  but  with  great  distinctness.  Von  Herrnung  swore 
and  spat,  full  in  his  face.  Its  nostrils  winced  disgust,  but 
the  brown  eyes  were  indomitable.  And  from  the  blue  lips 
came  a  mere  thread  of  human  utterance,  pregnant  with 
scathing  irony: 

"I — say  to  you  what  the — Belgian  woman  said  to  your 
Kaiser — when  his — horse  splashed  her.  '  This  kind  of  filth — 
wipes  off !''' 

' '  You  think  so,  eh  ?     You ' ' 

Von  Herrnung  clenched  his  fist,  and  might  have  dashed  it 
in  the  eyes  that  defied  him,  but  for  a  sudden,  significant 
change  in  the  sound  of  those  distant  guns.     The  barrage  of 


More    Kultur  553 

the  German  Field  Artillery  was  becoming  intermittent. 
The  slogging  of  the  British  had  increased  in  energy. 

A  flare  of  red  spurted  into  the  Kaiserman's  pasty  cheeks, 
and  his  hard  eyes  lighted  eagerly.  He  forgot  his  rule  of 
sleeping  off  liquor  before  again  taking  to  the  air.  With  a 
confidence  in  his  own  powers  largely  justified  by  his  suc- 
cesses, his  mind  leaped  to  the  scene  of  conflict.  Now,  when 
the  German  batteries  were  weakening,  was  the  moment  for 
the  arrival  of  a  pilot-aviator  of  the  Imperial  Field  Flight, 
skilled  as  aerial  observer  and  signaller,  and  known  to  be 
indifferent  to  risk. 

Here  was  the  chance  one  had  hoped  for.  Restitution  of 
the  forfeited  decoration.  Restoration  to  the  Emperor's 
favour.  Reinstatement  in  the  lost  place  upon  the  regi- 
mental roster.  Promotion^the  bestowal  of  new  honours- 
danced  before  him  like  little,  gaudy  demons,  drowning  with 
their  buzz  the  voice  of  prudence,  luring  him  to  the  essay. 

"I  am  compelled  to  leave  you  now,  Norwater, "  he  said 
smilingly  to  the  man  on  the  stretcher;  "thanks  so  much  for 
our  interesting  chat!  I  shall  carry  away  a  pleasant  recol- 
lection, and  leave  you  also  a  memento  in  the  shape  of  a 
bomb,  which  I  shall  drop  on  you  when  I  have  climbed  to  a 
suitable  height,  ^o  Gut  Abend,  Alter  junge.  Though  before 
I  go  there  is  a  trifling  formality " 

He  knelt  down  by  the  stretcher,  and  without  unnecessary 
gentleness  rifled  the  pockets  of  the  wounded  man.  The 
victim  had  swooned  when  von  Herrnung  rose,  transfer- 
ring to  his  own  person  a  small  purse,  heavy  with  English 
sovereigns,  and  a  pigskin  case  full  of  crisp  French  bank- 
notes, with  a  thin  gold  wrist-watch  that  had  a  luminous  dial, 
and  a  coroneted  monogram  upon  the  back. 

Sheer  waste,  according  to  the  German  War  Book,  issued 
by  the  Great  Staff  for  the  use  of  German  officers,  to  leave 
upon  the  person  of  the  fallen  opponent  articles  likely  to  be 
of  use  to  the  conqueror.  He  rinsed  his  hands  in  the  water- 
can,  and  dried  them  on  his  clothing,  pulled  up  his  helmet, 


554  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

fastened  it,  and  buttoned  his  pockets,  straightened  his 
bandolier,  nodded  pleasantly  at  the  reflection  of  his  giant 
person  in  the  skewed  wall-mirror,  jumped  lightly  through 
the  window-gap,  and  went  upon  his  way. 

The  slight  figure  lying  so  still  upon  the  stretcher  had 
never  been  remarkable  for  beauty  of  proportion.  The 
sharpened  face  with  its  hue  of  old  wax,  the  discoloured  stains 
and  the  hair  and  grime  upon  it,  had  never  been  handsome 
even  in  health.  But  thrown  back  and  tilted  upvv^ards,  with 
the  rosy  glow  of  the  setting  sun  touching  the  high  brow,  and 
violet  shadows  framing  the  sealed  e3^elids  and  close-shut 
mouth,  it  did  not  lack  the  quality  of  nobility.  There  was 
something  knightly  about  the  still  form. 

He  revived  to  pain  and  loneliness  and  burning  thirst,  the 
squalor  and  abomination  of  desolation,  the  louder,  nearer 
thudding  of  the  German  dnmi-fire,  and  the  dogged  reply  of 
the  unweakening  British  guns.  He  might  have  deemed  the 
events  that  had  taken  place  illusions  born  of  weakness  and 
fever,  but  for  the  testimony  of  the  looking-glass  that  hung 
away  upon  the  wall.  There  was  the  familiar  vista  of  the 
Market  Square,  with  the  charred  ruins  of  Town  Hall  and 
Clock  Tower,  yet  sending  up  thin  columns  of  bluish  smoke 
into  the  radiant  air.  You  could  even  make  out  a  corner  of 
the  great  stack  of  stiffened,  blackening  bodies.  Nothing 
was  wanting  but  that  the  Taube  should  still  be  resting  on  the 
cobblestones  like  a  drowsy  white  vampire-bat  glutted  with 
htiman  blood. 

But  the  Taube  was  not  there.  From  high  overhead  the 
buzzing  note  of  the  hoverer  came  down  to  Franky.  He 
could  see  through  the  rents  in  the  penthouse  of  broken 
flooring  the  white,  winged  shape  hanging  poised  overhead. 
He  even  fancied  he  could  descry  the  helmeted,  goggled  head 
of  von  Herrnung  peering  over  the  bulwarks  of  the  bird -body , 
the  jut  of  his  elbow  and  the  pear-shaped  wire  cages  in  which 
the  bombs  hung  ready  to  his  hand. 


More   Kultur  555 

The  thought  of  Margot  and  the  child  was  an  exquisite 
agony.  The  thirst  for  Hfe,  delectable  life,  revived  in  Franky 
ragingly.  In  dreadful  expectation  of  the  deafening  crash, 
and  the  rending  pang,  and  the  burning  bite  of  the  greenish 
flame,  the  haggard  eyes  were  straining  upwards,  when  the 
terrorwent  out  of  them,  and  their  lids  flickered  down.   .  .  . 

Let  the  fellow  do  his  worst.  Where  was  the  good  of 
hating?  Christ  had  prayed  for  His  murderers  when  they 
nailed  Him.  on  the  Tree.  The  numb  hand  feebly  made  the 
Sacred  Sign,  and  the  tension  passed  with  the  terror.   .   .  . 

There  was  a  dull  boom  high  overhead,  and  some  heavy 
objects  fell  in  a  neighbouring  backyard.  Little  bits  of 
metal  rattled  on  Franky's  plank  penthouse,  and  some  warm 
drops  pattered  on  Franky's  face  and  wetted  the  hand  that 
lay  upon  his  breast.  Not  rain,  but  something  sticky  and 
thick,  with  a  sickly,  well-known  odour.  He  lifted  the  hand. 
Oh,  horrible!     The  heavens  were  raining  blood. 

Too  weak  to  even  guess  at  what  had  happened,  he  fell 
again  into  a  stupor.  The  hollowed  chest  heaved  at  longer 
intervals  beneath  the  First  Aid  bandaging  over  which  had 
been  thrown  the  khaki  coat.  Long  cold  breaths  expired 
through  the  panting  nostrils,  the  eyes  showed  a  glassy  line  of 
white  between  the  parted  lids.     He  was  dreaming.  .  .  . 

Dreaming  of  being  borne  along  in  a  shadowy  boat  under 
starless  skies,  through  clear  lucent  darkness,  over  another 
darkness  unfathomable,  and  yet  diamond-clear.  Perhaps 
no  more  water  than  the  atmosphere  above  it  was  air,  both 
possibly,  elements  unknown.  .  .  .  The  boat  crowded 
with  seated  shapes,  three  of  them  feminine.  ...  A  tall, 
black-hooded,  black-mantled  figure  in  the  sternway  seemed 
to  impel  the  vessel  with  a  single  oar. 

"Is  this  stuff  water?" 

The  quiet  voice  of  a  man  seated  beside  Franky  had  asked 
the  question.  Franky  slipped  his  hand  over  the  boat's  low 
side  and  withdrew  it  shining,  but  not  dripping,  thinking: 


556  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

"It  is  and  it  isn't.  Fairiy  odd!  Wonder  where  we're 
bound  for?  That  fellow  sculling.  .  .  .  Reminds  me  of 
old  Charon,  in  the  Sixth  Mneid,  when  I  swotted  Virgil 
at  School. " 

"Me  too!"  Thought  seemed  to  pass  current  as  speech, 
for  though  Franky  had  not  voiced  his  reflection,  the  tall 
man  who  sat  next  him  had  answered  instantly: 

"But  if  this  is  the  Ninefold — what  about  the  'cold  and 
venomous  waters,  consuming  iron  and  breaking,  the  rarest 
vessels. '"  The  speaker  dipped  his  hand  over  the  side  and 
brought  it  up  all  shining  but  not  dripping,  and  touched  his 
lips  with  it,  and  went  on,  smiling:  "Besides,  if  you  and  I 
are  alive,  where  are  our  golden  boughs,  and  if  we're  dead, 
where  are  our  oboli?  We  ought  to  have  'em!  It  wouldn't 
be  good  form  not !" 

"Why,  you're  Braythwayte  of  Ours!  How  is  it  I  didn't 
know  you?  Why  did  I  suppose — "  Franky  broke  off ,  for 
Braythwayte's  very  recent  exit  from  the  stage  of  life  had 
been  performed  after  a  highly  coloured  fashion,  when  the 
Germans  had  showered  heavy  shells  of  high  explosive  upon 
the  little  Belgian  town.  "That  fellow  sculling, "  he  said  to 
cover  the  slight  embarrassment.  "Somehow  I  fancy  I've 
seen  him  before. " 

"Ah!  Now  I  recollect."  Braythwayte  was  answering 
the  thought  of  the  previous  moment.  "I  did  get  crumped 
up  pretty  badly.  Should  have  come  off  lots  worse  hadn't 
it  been  for  Cruse.  He  threw  himself  in  front  of  me  when  the 
shell  dropped  so  near  us.  "  He  spoke  of  the  Sergeant-Major 
of  his  Company  who  had  been  killed  at  the  same  moment. 
"Don't  you  recognise  him?  Cruse  is  the  man  who's  sculling. 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face  just  now — it  can  be  nobod}'' 
but  Cruse. " 

"  Beggin'  yer  pard'n,  Sorr.  "  The  soft  South  Irish  brogue 
sounded  more  apologetic  than  contradictory.  The  thick, 
sturdy  figure  of  the  speaker,  uncertainly  descried  in  the 
clear  obscurity,  leaned  anxiously  over  from  the  opposite  seat. 


More    Kultur  557 

"  'Tis  Father  Walsh — may  Those  Above  reward  him  for  an 
ould,  bould  gentleman! — that  kem  crawlin'  out  on  his  four 
bones  to  the  Advanced  threnches  at  a  place  they  did  be 
callin'  La  Bossy  or  suchlike — to  give  Holy  Absolution  to 
meself  and  Hanlon  an'  two  other  boys  av'  the  Loyal  Irish 
Rifles  that  wor'  in  a  bad  way.  Wouldn't  I  swear  to  his  skin 
on  a  gate,  or  the  bend  of  his  beak  anywhere" — the  voice 
hesitated — "barrin'  for  the  mimmory  I  have  that  Thim 
Wans  was  afther  pluggin'  him  through  the  head — and  him- 
self just  layin'  the  Blessed  Sacrament  on  me  tongue!" 

"Beg  pardon.  "  A  woman's  voice  joined  in  the  conversa- 
tion. 'Sorry  to  interrupt,  but  I  know  him,  really.  It 
isn't  the  Surgeon-Major — or  Father  Anybody!"  Franky 
recognised  in  the  clear  obscurity  the  flowing  white  head- 
dress and  grey  Red-Cross  badged  cape  of  an  Army  Nursing 
Sister,  as  she  went  on :  "It's  just  our  Civil  Surgical  Specialist 
— who  died  of  double  pneumonia  (septic)  at  the  Harfleur 
Military  Hospital.  Had  a  touch  of  influenza — and  would 
get  out  of  bed  to  operate  on  one  of  the  Sisters — a  sudden 
case  of  appendix  trouble  with  typhoid  thrown  in.  Oh,  yes! 
the  operation  was  successful,  but  the  Sister  didn't  recover. 
Still,  the  C.S.S.  gave  his  life  for  hers  all  the  same!" 

"Good  egg,  him !  But  are  you  quite  sure  there's  no  mis- 
take with  regard  to  our  friend  there?"  Franky  nodded 
towards  the  tall,  black-hooded,  black-mantled  figure  plying 
the  oar,  upright  in  the  .  tern.  "Because  just  now  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  his  face,  and  I  could  have  sworn  it  was  my 
grandfather — by  a  long  sight  the  finest  man  I've  ever  come 
across!  He  dived  over  the  yacht's  side  and  saved  my  life 
when  I  was  drowning.  It  was  the  Cowes  Season  of  1894. 
I  was  a  cheeky  nipper  of  eight — and  he  was  seventy-one. 
And  the  chill  and  the  excitement  brought  on  a  stroke  or 
something.  He  was  dead  in  his  cabin-berth  next  morning, 
when  his  man  went  in  with  the  mail." 

"Oh,  you  funnies!"  This  with  a  clear  little  trill  of 
laughter  in  the  voice  of  a  small  girl — Franky  could  see  her 


558  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

bright  eyes  dancing  as  she  peeped  at  him  from  her  niche 
between  the  Army  Nurse  and  the  small,  black-habited 
elderly  figure  of  a  Sister  of  Charity  in  a  deep  starched 
guimpe  and  wide-flanged  cornette.  "As  if  it  could  be  any- 
body but  my  Dada — who  pulled  the  soldiers  out  of  the  train 
that  was  all  smashed  up  and  burning!  When  me  and 
Mummy " 

"  Taisez  vous  done,  Raymonde !"  whispered  the  nun 
reprovingly.  "It  is  not  convenable  that  petites  demoiselles 
should  interrupt  their  elders  thus.  Remember  where  you 
are,  and  in  what  Presence!" 

"Please  don't  scold  her!"  coaxed  Franky,  the  devout 
lover  of  children.  The  nun  smiled,  meeting  his  entreating 
eyes.  He  smiled  back  and  went  on:  "Right  or  wrong — we 
seem  all  agreed  that  our  friend  in  the  stern  is  a  near  relation 
— or  a  close  acquaintance  of  nearly  every  one  of  us.  In 
every  case  a  supreme  benefactor " 

"Surely,  monsieur!"  she  gave  back  in  a  hushed  tone. 
"But  surelv,  monsieur!  The  Helper — the  Benefactor  of 
us  all!" 

As  the  keel  grated  on  unseen  bottom,  she  folded  her 
hands  with  a  beautiful  devoutness,  and  sank  upon  her  knees, 
drawing  with  her  the  child.  The  man  of  the  Loyal  Irish 
followed  her  example.  Franky  found  himself  kneeling  with 
the  others — and  as  the  boat's  prow  ploughed  into  sand  or 
shingle,  and  the  Ferryman,  shipping  his  oar,  moved  shore- 
wards  with  a  shepherding  gesture,  the  voyagers  rose  with  a 
thrill  of  expectancy,  and  followed  with  one  accord. 

He  stepped  ashore — dropping  the  great  black  mantle — 
turned  and  faced  them,  spreading  out  His  Arms.  Beauty 
Divine,  glory  unspeakable 


CHAPTER  LXVII 

THE    QUESTION 

"Have  I  been  honest  ? "  Patrine  asked  herself  over  and  over, 
kneeling  by  the  open  window,  staring  into  the  darkness. 
"Have  I  been  just  towards  the  man  who  never  was  a  friend 
even  when  he  played  the  lover?  Did  not  my  own  attitude 
of  cynical  curiosity  towards  secret,  hidden  things,  bias  his 
line  of  conduct  towards  me  ?  Might  not  even  von  Herrnung 
have  respected  a  girl  who  showed  no  inclination  to  flutter 
moth-like,  about  the  flaming  torch  of  Sin'  No!  he  would 
not.  But  I  could  have  saved  myself  even  from  scorching — 
I,  who  approached  the  flame  too  closely,  and  shall  carry 
the  scars  of  my  burning  to  the  grave." 

Drip,  drip,  drip!  Water,  oozing  from  the  box  that  stood 
upon  the  table,  was  dropping  on  the  carpet  with  the  small, 
insistent  sound.  ...  At  the  west  end  of  the  Catholic 
Church  where  Patrine  had  told  her  story  to  a  priest  in  the 
Confessional  there  was  a  great  black  Crucifix,  bearing  a 
white  thorn-crowned  Figure  gashed  with  gory-seeming 
wounds.  She  had  fancied  that  the  blood  from  them  dripped 
down  upon  the  pavement  as  she  had  sat  staring  at  the  High 
Altar,  and  wondering  whether  it  were  true  that  wilful  sin 
committed  by  men  and  women  for  whose  salvation  Christ 
had  bled  and  died  might  not  cause  Him  suffering  even  now? 

She  had  been  willing  to  sin  for  Sherbrand,  and  said  so  in 
her  hour  of  madness.  Yet  the  renunciation  of  her  lover  as 
a  husband  had  been  an  act  of  the  purest  love.  Perhaps 
God  would  overlook  the  one  thing  for  the  sake  of  the  other? 
Perhaps  He  had  really  spoken  by  the  mouth  of  that  old 
priest  whose  tears  had  dropped  upon  his  withered  hands.  .  .  . 

Drip,  drip,  drip!     Patrine  began  to  suspect  the  source 

559 


56o  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

whence  the  sound  proceeded.  The  people  who  had  packed 
the  roses — they  must  be  roses — had  wetted  the  cotton-wool 
too  heavily,  the  fools!  The  inlaid  table  and  the  carpet 
would  suffer  if  the  wet  were  not  mopped  up.  One  ought 
to  ring  for  Mrs.  Keyse  or  Janey,  or  better  still,  see  to  it 
oneself. 

She  half-rose  with  this  intention,  then  sank  down  again 
nervelessly.  It  was  half-past  ten.  The  October  night 
leaned  close  over  London,  Harley  Street  was  muffled  in  vel- 
vet darkness.  The  veiled  gleam  of  electric  lights  showed  at 
its  junction  with  Cavendish  Square.  The  rumble  of  the 
tube  train  came  from  Portland  Place,  the  faint  shriek  of  the 
Northern  Express  sounded  from  Euston.  A  Brocken  Hunt 
of  motor-buses  screeched  and  clanked  up  the  Marylebone 
Road  and  faded  into  distance.  The  rumble  and  roar  of 
Oxford  Street  showed  signs  of  diminution.  It  was  possible 
to  hear  stray  sentences  spoke-  bv  people  passing  upon  the 
pavement  below. 

"I  don't  care!"  This  from  the  shorter  of  two  female 
figures  that  had  halted  before  the  house.  The  edge  of  light- 
coloured  skirt  showing  below  her  cloak,  and  the  gleam  of 
white  cuffs  framing  the  gloved  hands  with  which  she  ges- 
tured, suggested  a  Hospital  nurse  to  Patrine.  "Taxation 
without  Representation  is  a  crying  injustice — and  the  men 
will  wake  up  to  it  one  of  these  days.  .  .  .  And  Mrs.  Clash 
may  be  a  noisy  person — and  Fanny  Leaven  may  drop  her 
haiches — I  do  myself  when  I  get  stirred  up.  But  they're  in 
earnest — and  they've  suffered — cruel ! — fortheir convictions. 
Look  at  this  Petrell — that  one  that  always  takes  the  Chair. 
She's  a  physical  wreck — with  the  treatment  she's  had — and 
I  know  what  I'm  talking  about!  Haven't  we  had  Suffra- 
gettes brought  to  the  Hospital  for  treatment  over  and  over 
— after  they'd  been  pitched  out  of  Political  Meetings  by 
Stewards  and  half-throttled  by  Police.  What  I  say  is — 
Moses !  how  late !  .  .  .  We  shall  get  locked  out  of  the  Home 
if  we  don't  run  for  it ! " 


The  Question  561 

And  their  light  hurrying  footsteps  and  the  unmistakable 
frou-frou  of  starched  print  accompanying,  passed  away  up 
Harley  Street.  They  must  have  come  from  the  Mass 
Meeting  of  Suffragists  that  had  taken  place  at  the  Royal 
Hall. 

It  had  been  a  memorable  evening.  The  atmosphere  of 
the  Royal  Hall,  thronged  not  only  with  the  members  of  the 
W.S.S.S.  but  with  representatives  of  many  other  Women's 
Unions  and  Associations  and  Societies  and  Leagues,  was 
highly  charged  with  electricity.  Mrs.  Petrell,  resolute- 
lipped,  quiet-eyed,  clear  of  diction  and  composed  of  manner, 
knew,  as  she  sat  in  her  chair  beside  the  little  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  crowded  platform,  and  better  even  than  the 
plain-clothes  police  among  the  audience — that  at  any  mo- 
ment the  storm  might  break. 

She  had  advocated  with  all  her  much-tried  strength  an 
armistice  for  the  War-period,  involving  a  temporary 
abandonment  of  militant  methods  and  inflammatory  ad- 
dresses, in  favour  of  a  policy  of  active  help  and  practical 
sympathy,  alike  honourable  to  her  head  and  heart. 

Other  Societies,  Unions,  Leagues,  and  Associations  might 
have  followed  the  lead  of  their  Presidents.  But  would  the 
W.S.S.S.  accept  her  programme?  Militancy  had  been  its 
motto  and  the  breath  of  its  nostrils  through  all  these  trou- 
bled years.  Since  the  outbreak  of  War,  Flaming  Fanny 
had  busily  sown  the  whirlwind,  advocating  fresh  Demon- 
strations in  conjunction  with  a  system  of  Unlimited  Strikes. 
Woman  must  hold  her  hand,  now  that  her  help  was  needed. 
Man,  the  Oppressor  of  all  time,  must  be  coerced  by  Woman's 
flat  refusal  to  take  part  in  Relief  Work,  or  War  Work,  or 
Work  of  any  kind  whatever,  into  yielding  the  withheld 
right.  And  Mrs.  Clash  sided  with  Fanny — and  others, 
nearer  home. 

Little  wonder  then  that  Pressmen,  sensing  the  imminence 

of  riot,  had  turned  out  in  their  shabbiest  tweeds  and  left 
36 


562  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

their  watches  and  tie-pins  at  home.  Little  wonder  that 
Medical  Students,  who  had  not  alread}^  joined  the  Service, 
with  betting-men  and  patrons  of  the  pugilistic  Prize  Ring, 
found  themselves  baulked  of  anticipated  entertainment,  or 
that  loafers  and  crooks,  pickpockets  and  rowdies,  dis- 
appointed of  a  pleasurable  evening,  expressed  themselves  in 
unmeasured  terms  regarding  that  Mass  Meeting  at  the 
Royal  Hall. 

A  melodious  speaking- voice  can  be  a  magical  wand, 
wielded  by  the  mouth  of  a  plain  woman.  But  when  the 
woman  is  beautiful  and  intellectual,  when  soul  breathes 
through  her  words,  and  strength  and  tenderness,  then  she 
becomes  a  Force  to  reckon  with,  a  Power  to  move  mount- 
ains and  bring  water  of  tears  from  the  living  rock  of  the 
hardest  human  heart. 

The  ofhcially-checked  lights  of  the  Hall  shone  down  upon 
a  sea  of  threatening  faces.  The  electric  battens  over  the 
speaker's  head  showed  her  to  be  a  tall,  fair,  slender  woman, 
dressed  in  filmy  grey,  veiling  soft  clinging  silk  of  the  same 
shade.  The  simplicity  of  her  dress  was  unrelieved  by  orna- 
ments other  than  a  chain  of  pearls  about  her  long  throat. 
The  red-brown  hair  seemed  heavy  for  the  little  Greek 
head,  the  lovely  pale  face  with  the  sensitive  lips,  wore  a 
look  of  patient  sorrow,  the  eyes  she  turned  upon  the  audi- 
ence— a  seething  mixture  of  irreconcilable  elements — had 
in  them  courage,  sympathy  and  understanding,  and  know- 
ledge too.  Before  she  spoke  she  had  created  an  impression. 
Strangers  were  ingratiated  by  her  beauty  and  evident 
refinement.  Those  who  best  knew  her  were  among  the  wild- 
est and  most  reckless  there.  They  had  quieted,  when  she 
had  risen  up  in  her  unnoticed  corner  of  the  platform,  and 
moved  forwards  to  the  speaker's  place  opposite  the  Chair,  as 
though  oil  had  been  cast  upon  the  waters  of  a  stormy  sea. 

"When  God  Willed  this  War  that  we  call  Armaged- 
don, "  she  had  said  to  them — "  for  without  the  permission  of 


I 
I 


The  Question  563 

the  Most  High  the  earthly  Powers  that  planned  and  pre- 
pared it  could  not  have  plucked  the  fruit  of  their  desire — it 
came  in  time  to  prevent  the  declaration  of  a  War  even  more 
terrible.     War,  to  the  Death,  between  Woman  and  Man." 

In  a  few  trenchant  words  she  painted  the  dire  results  of 
such  hostility. 

"That  unnatural  horror  has  been  mercifully  averted," 
she  said  to  them.  "The  old  sore  is  healed,  there  is  no  hatred 
nor  rancour  left.  We  women  have  learned  what  a  price  has 
to  be  paid  for  the  Franchise  of  Manhood.  It  is  the  brave 
blood  that  is  drenching  the  soil  of  Belgiimi  and  France  and 
Poland — that  will  flow  in  rivers  as  wide  as  the  Thames  at 
Vauxhall  Bridge  before  Peace  is  proclaimed  again.  They 
have  answered  the  Call.  They  are  pouring  into  the  recruit- 
ing offices — in  thousands  of  thousands— those  who  have 
given  up  their  loved  ones,  their  homes,  their  hopes  of  suc- 
cess in  Arts  or  Sciences,  professions  or  businesses  or  trades. 
Will  women  be  as  unselfish  and  as  generous  when  their  Call 
comes?  For  it  will  come.  It  is  coming  while  I  stand 
here!" 

They  were  strangely  quiet,  under  the  spell  of  the  beautiful 
voice,  and  the  eyes  that  were  luminous  and  deep  with 
tenderness : 

"There  are  faithful  Christians  among  you;  brave  earnest 
souls  who  have  prayed  to  GOD  for  guidance  among  the 
difficulties  that  beset  the  way  for  working-women,  and 
weaker  souls  have  been  maddened  to  frenzy  and  plunged 
into  unbelief  by  the  intolerance  and  the  injustice,  the 
shrieking  wrongs  and  the  unpurged  evils  that  Man,  who 
enters  upon  his  heritage  the  world,  by  the  Gate  of  Mother- 
hood, has  ignorantly  accimiulated  upon  the  shoulders  of  the 
sex  he  professes  to  respect.  " 

There  was  a  murmur  of  approval  at  this.  She  lifted  a 
hand,  and  they  were  silent. 

"I  say  to  those  who  have  despaired,  'Despair  no  longer!' 
I  say  to  those  who  have  prayed — 'Your  prayer  is  answered ! ' 


564  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Take  up  the  work  that  has  dropped  from  the  hands  that  are 
busy  with  the  rifle.  Prove  your  right  to  the  ParHamentary 
Franchise.  Take  your  place  amongst  the  World's  Workers 
for  good  and  for  all.  The  Vote  will  be  granted :  it  cannot  be 
denied !  But  if  you  had  it  now,  passionately  as  you  desire 
it,  and  the  choice  were  offered  you — Oh!  my  sisters! — 
would  you  not  yield  it  up  with  gladness  to  bring  those  dead 
men  back  to  life  again?" 

And  after  a  pause  of  unbroken  silence  she  added : 

"For  they  have  fought  even  better  than  they  knew. 
They  have  re-conquered  Woman.  Freely  and  willingly  as 
comrade  and  helper  she  takes  her  place  and  her  share  of  the 
burden.  Peace  is  proclaimed.  The  War  between  the  sexes 
is  at  an  end!" 

We  know  how  truly  the  speaker  prophesied.  Quietly  as 
the  vast  Atlantic  flows  into  and  fills  a  labyrinth  of  empty, 
echoing,  rock-caverns,  the  vast  body  of  unemployed  women 
took  the  places  of  the  male  workers  called  away  to  the  Front. 
They  had  clicked  into  the  slots  before  the  world  was  well 
aware  of  it,  or  they  themselves  understood  that  a  miracle 
had  been  wrought. 

Said  the  breeched  and  gaitered  lady-conductor  of  a  North - 
West  tram  the  other  day : 

"Now  the  ones  that  was  brought  up  active  has  got  their 
chance  to  do  a  bit,  and  the  ones  that  was  brought  up  idle 
'ave  found  out  that  they  like  work,  will  they  ever  be  con- 
tent to  sit  and  twiddle  their  thumbs  again?  I  don't  think!" 
She  clipped  pink  tickets  with  zeal,  and  when  a  red-nosed, 
watery-eyed  elderly  man  who  had  offered  her  a  pewter 
shilling  cursed  her  venomously  as  she  thrust  the  coin  back 
on  him :  "  'Ere  you !  .  .  .  'Op  it ! "  she  said  to  the  offender, 
and  caught  him  neatly  by  the  scruff,  hauled  him  down  the 
cork-screw  stairway,  and  deposited  him  in  the  Camden 
Road  without  turning  a  hair. 


CHAPTER  LXVIII 


THE  DEVIL-EGG 


Von  Herrnung  had  quitted  the  earth  sober,  to  discover  at 
the  height  of  a  thousand  metres  that  his  potations  had 
dulled  his  brain.  As  he  ceased  to  climb  and  brought  down 
the  nose  of  the  Taube  to  the  level,  he  realised  that  he  was 
dizzy,  and  that  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach  squatted  the  avi- 
ator's deadly  foe,  the  demon  of  nausea.  He  pictured  it  as  a 
yellow,  frog-like  thing  with  frothing  leath'ery  lips  and  green 
eyes  that  squinted.  This  image  vexed  him,  and  would  not 
be  driven  away. 

He  switched  on  the  hawk-hovcrer  and  sensed  the  drag  of 
the  twin  horizontal  flanged  screws  against  the  thrust  of  the 
propeller,  adding  to  its  drone  the  vibration  of  the  endless 
travelling-chains  running  in  their  sheath  of  transparent  talc. 
To  make  room  for  its  long  groove  in  the  floor  of  the  bird- 
body,  the  thick  glass  port  beneath  the  pilot's  feet  had  been 
removed  by  the  sergeant-mechanic  of  the  Flight  Squadron. 
Now  there  were  two  ports,  one  on  either  side.  Through 
these  the  German  looked  down  upon  the  shell-pounded 
ruins  of  the  village-town,  its  roofless  homes  and  broken 
enclosures  giving  the  effect  of  a  wild-bees'  nest  laid  open  by 
the  gardener's  shovel  after  the  gardener  has  smoked  out  the 
bees.  As  von  Herrnung  located  the  baker's  house  by  aid 
of  his  recently  acquired  binoculars,  another  swirl  of  sickness 
took  him,  and  he  shuddered  and  spat  bile  over  the  side. 

Those  distant  voices  of  guns  had  not  ceased  their  sullen 
calling.  In  the  rose-flushed  south  towards  which  the  Taube 
faced  as  it  hovered  above  the  rains  of  the  village,  black 
columns  of  vapour  swelled  and  towered,  and  acrid  flashes 
stabbed  through  the  murkiness.     One  should  be  there,  his 

565 


566  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

manlier  self  said  to  him.  Better  to  be  a  brave  German  bird 
dodging  Death  amongst  the  puffs  of  shrapnel,  dropping  devil- 
eggs  on  the  British  batteries,  winning  back  the  forfeited 
Cross  and  the  lost  Imperial  favour,  than  to  be  here,  hanging 
like  a  carrion-vulture  over  the  maimed  body  of  a  dying  man. 

Perhaps.  But  one  had  promised  oneself  revenge  for  the 
scorn  that  had  stung  like  fire.  And  one  had  bragged  to  the 
English  boy  of  what  one  meant  to  do.  He  looked  back, 
and  called  through  the  speaking-tube  that  traversed  the 
canvas  over-deck  between  the  pilot's  seat  and  the  passen- 
ger's: 

"Unstrap  yourself  and  come  to  me  and  take  the  control- 
stick.  Schnell — do  you  hear?  What  is  that  you  say?  He  put 
the  voice-tube  to  his  ear  and  heard  the  shrill  pipe  answer 
through  it.  "You  think  it  best  to  tell  me  that  you  take 
back  your  parole?"  The  big  teeth  grinned  under  the 
red  moustache.  "All  right!"  said  the  Enemy.  "While  we 
are  in  the  air,  you  are  free  to  jump  out  if  you  like,  and  run 
away.  When  we  get  to  the  ground  again,  that  is  another 
matter.  Come  now,  sit  in  front  of  me  and  take  over  the 
controls ! " 

And  as  the  boy  obeyed,  creeping  beneath  the  intervening 
deck  and  under  the  canvas  partition,  the  Enemy  moved  back 
upon  the  pilot-seat,  keeping  his  feet  on  the  lower  controls, 
and  separating  his  knees  so  as  to  leave  a  ledge  for  Bawne 
to  occupy.  Still  laughing,  he  took  spare  safety-straps  that 
hung  on  each  side  against  the  bulwarks,  and  clipped  the 
patent  pneumatic  studs  to  the  belt  that  girt  the  boy. 

It  did  not  do  to  run  risks.  Some  day,  it  might  occur  to  the 
Emperor  to  order  von  Herrnung  to  deliver  up  his  captive. 
And — the  little  devil  was  useful — hellishly!  He  had  come 
into  the  world,  twelve  years  ago — possessed  of  the  Flying 
Gift.  He  had  taken  to  the  air  as  naturally  as  a  young 
crow  or  pigeon.  A  tap  on  the  shoulder,  a  word  shouted  in 
his  ear — and  he  knew  what  you  wanted!  He  understood 
now  why  his  overlord  required  the  unrestricted  use  of  his 


The  Devil-Egg  567 

arms  at  this  moment.  The  small  hands  twitched  as  they 
gripped  the  lever,  and  shudders  convulsed  the  slender  frame. 

Noting  this  von  Herrnung  grinned.  His  qualms  had 
left  him  for  the  present,  he  was  once  more  master  of  his 
stomach  and  lord  of  his  cool  and  steady  brain.  Through 
the  back  of  his  head  the  boy  could  see  him — leaning  his  big 
body  sidewise — craning  his  neck  over  the  edge  of  the  fuse- 
lage— his  hand  hovering  over  the  bomb  hanging  near  in  its 
wire  holder,  his  keen  hard  eyes  calculating  distance — his  red 
brows  knitted,  his  full  mouth  smiling  under  its  thatch  of 
red  hair.  The  devil-egg  would  burst  upon  its  impact  with  a 
roof  or  with  the  ground,  a  thousand  metres  under  the  Taube. 
How  many  times  since  the  red  dawning  of  the  Aggressor's 
Day  had  he,  von  Herrnung,  not  plucked  out  the  pin  and 
lifted  the  latch,  and  sent  Death  and  Destruction  speeding 
•earthwards!  Why  should  this  particular  devil-egg  have 
exploded  five  seconds  after  its  release? 

The  detonating  mechanism  had  been  wrongly  set,  or  the 
explosive  had  suffered  some  chemical  deterioration.  With 
the  volcanic  upburst  of  flaming  gases  and  the  fierce  blizzard 
of  rending  steel  splinters,  the  Taube  was  shot  upwards  like 
the  cork  from  a  bottle  of  champagne.  The  Enemy  had  cut 
out  the  hovering-gear  when  he  had  dropped  the  devil-egg, 
and  the  thrust  of  the  tractor  had  sent  the  Taube  rushing  on. 
Thus,  though  she  had  been  bumped  about  on  waves  of  ris- 
ing gases — though  daylight  shone  through  holes  in  her  wings 
and  body, — awheel  had  dropped  like  a  stone  from  her  under- 
carriage— and  a  piece  of  her  tail  had  gone  fluttering  and 
swerving  earthwards,  no  serious  damage  had  been  done  to 
the  machine. 

Bawne's  cheek  was  bleeding  from  the  scratch  of  a  splinter, 
but  he  stuck  manfully  to  the  controls.  "Steer  south, "  he 
had  been  told,  "when  I  switch  off  the  hoverer,  "  and  he  had 
waited,  his  teeth  set,  his  brows  knitted,  his  eyes  on  the  com- 
pass, and  his  heart  crying  out  to  God  to  save  his  new-found 
friend. 


568  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

He  knew  it  was  because  he  had  prayed  so  hard  that  the 
bomb  had  exploded  prematurely.  Would  the  Enemy  try 
again  with  the  one  that  yet  remained?  But  the  Enemy 
made  no  sign.  One  dared  not  look  round  or  speak  to  him. 
Was  he  in  a  fit,  or  sick,  or  merely  shamming  ?  One  could  feel 
the  big  body  heaving  at  one's  back  as  it  lay  huddled  against 
the  canvas  partition,  with  rolling  head  and  arms  spread  wide, 
and  knees  that  straddled  and  sagged. 

Jerk !  The  Taube  heaved  her  after-part  as  a  cow  gets  up, 
and  nose-dived.  Von  Herrnung's  feet  had  slipped  from  the 
controls,  and  her  rudder  was  flapping  free.  As  Bawne  toed 
the  bar  and  gripped  the  guide-wheel,  and  brought  the  keel  to 
a  level,  the  blood  in  his  veins  tingled  and  he  knew  a  thrill 
of  joy. 

One  had  borne  a  lot,  but — Man  alive! — a  moment  like 
this  was  worth  it.  What  Boy  Scout  could  deny  the  great- 
ness of  this  boy's  reward?  To  be  master  of  this  giant  Bird, 
rushing  at  the  speed  of  an  express-train  over  woods  and  fields 
and  villages,  diminished  to  the  patches  on  a  crazy-quilt  by 
the  height  at  which  one  sped.  To  hear  the  shrill  breeze 
harping  in  the  wires  and  the  roar  of  the  flashing  tractor, 
and  change  the  din  at  a  finger-touch  to  the  silence  of  a  glide. 

West,  where  the  sun  was  setting  in  red  fire  were  signs  by 
now  familiar.  Linked  specks  that  were  big  grey  German 
troop-trains  ran  over  the  shining  gossamer-lines  of  the  rail- 
ways, going  south.  Where  the  shining  lines  looked  like 
scattered  pins,  the  railways  had  been  blown  up  by  the  Bel- 
gians, or  the  British.  Things  like  caterpillars  crawling  over 
the  white  ribbons  of  the  highways  were  German  motor- 
lorries  dragging  great  howitzers,  or  Army  Supply  and 
Transport,  or  marching  columns  of  robust,  bullet-headed 
German  infantrymen. 

A  blot  of  grey  upon  a  town  was  where  a  Division  rested. 
Strings  of  grey  spiders  hurrying  south,  would  be  brigades 
of  cyclist  telegraphists  or  sharpshooters,  and  processions  of 
drab   beetles  scuttling   along.  Field  Ambulances,  or   Stafl 


The  Devil-Egg  5^9 

motor-cars.  One  would  have  said  that  a  green-grey  bh'ght 
had  fallen  upon  Belgium,  swiftly  advancing,  stayed  by 
nothing,  devouring  as  it  moved. 

East,  where  the  shadow  of  the  Taube  raced  beside  her  like 
a  carriage-dog,  black  streaks  that  were  barges  still  crawled 
on  the  canals,  and  peasants'  carts  crept  over  the  roads — and 
there  were  no  coltimns  of  troops  in  view,  nor  uglier  tokens  of 
the  War.  Though  the  red  and  brown  towns  showed  scant 
signs  of  life,  late  root-crops  were  being  harvested;  plough- 
teams  were  breaking  up  the  stubbles,  factory  chimneys  were 
smoking,  and  acres  of  linen-web  yet  spread  to  bleach  along 
the  river -banks. 

Later  in  the  month  the  grey-green  blight  was  to  sweep 
over  all  this  region  as  the  Boche  retreated  before  the  thrust 
of  the  1st  and  4th  British  Army  Corps,  from  Houthulst 
Forest  to  Menin-on-Lys. 

Those  voices  of  the  guns  were  nearer  now.  They  talked 
on  incessantly  You  felt  the  air  that  carried  you  vibrating 
as  you  flew.  The  solid  earth  heaved  up  in  waves  under  the 
dusty  golden  smoke-drifts  veiling  the  south  horizon. 
Black  pillars  of  smoke  and  debris  climbed  and  collapsed 
against  the  dusty  gold.  Grey  Imperial  Staff  cars  were 
parked  in  the  courtyard  of  a  chateau  with  pepper-box  towers. 
Officers  sat  at  tables  on  the  vine-covered  terrace,  while  a 
farm  close  by  was  doing  duty  as  a  casualty-clearing  station. 
You  could  pick  out  the  flutter  of  the  Red  Cross  Flag  on  a 
broken  tree  beside  the  gateway — and  the  come  and  go  of  the 
bearers  carrying  laden  or  empty  stretchers — and  the  white 
armlets  of  the  Sanitdtskorps  men  who  drove  the  ambulance- 
cars.  To  have  seen  over  and  over  again  what  grown  folks 
learned  from  newspapers  was  to  be  a  man  seasoned  in  War, 
whilst  yet  one's  bones  were  young.  Well  worth  the  hard- 
ships one  had  borne,  this  sheaf  of  ripe  experience.  Good  to 
know  one  had  obeyed  the  Chief  who  said,  "  Q-uil  yourself  like 
a  man!" 


570  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

So  Bawne  flew  on.  The  fiery  chrism  of  a  strange  second 
baptism  was  on  his  forehead.  Gates  of  wonder  seemed 
opening  on  the  horizon  towards  which  he  hastened,  guided 
by  the  big  broad  arrow  of  the  reinforced  compass  and  the 
thudding  of  those  nearing  guns. 

Some  perception  of  great  issues  at  stake  and  marvellous 
impending  changes,  ushering  in  the  revival  of  the  forgotten 
days  of  Chivalry,  may  have  come  at  this  hour  to  the  child 
so  strangely  caught  and  whirled  into  the  dizzy  circles  of  the 
maelstrom  of  International  War.  Did  a  voice  whisper  to 
him  that  as  of  old  by  his  Pagan  forefathers,  babes  were 
sacrificed  to  Bel  and  Odin — so  for  the  cleansing  of  the  sick 
world  of  to-day  from  the  War-madness  begotten  by  greed 
and  materialism  a  torrent  of  rich,  warm,  generous  blood  was 
to  be  shed  from  the  veins  of  the  young  .-*  Could  he  dream 
that  the  lower  mankind  sank,  the  higher  men  were  to  rise — 
mounting  on  stepping-stones  of  obedience  and  courage,  to 
those  heights  where  the  himian  may  walk  with  the  Divine? 
That  through  long  years  to  come,  bright  boys  in  myriads 
would  drain  the  wine  of  Death  from  the  chalice  of  Self- 
Sacrifice,  and  pass  to  God  who  kindled  in  those  clean  young 
souls  the  fire  that  made  Him  burn  to  die  for  men. 

The  Enemy  was  rousing  from  his  doze  or  dwam,  or  swoon, 
or  whatever  had  been  the  matter  with  him.  The  big  body 
was  heaving  into  an  upright  posture,  the  big  foot  was  knock- 
ing in  Morse  on  the  bottom  of  the  fuselage.  The  boy 
looked  down  and  saw  blood  running  there — or  was  it  the  red 
of  the  sunset? 

"Shut — off — and — look — at  me,  "  rapped  the  foot,  and  its 
thrall  obeyed  and  shrieked  at  the  sight  of  the  horror  he  was 
strapped  to,  glaring  with  wild  eyes,  and  spitting  unintelh- 
gible  sentences  with  bloody  splinters  of  shattered  teeth  and 
red  rags  of  palate  and  tongue. 

"  I  am  damaged,  is  it  not  so  ?  SomxCthing  hit  me  when  the 
bomb   exploded."     Something   like   this   came  in   strange 


The  Devil-Egg  571 

sounds  from  that  inhuman  face.  And  the  boy  shrieked 
again  and  again,  straining  at  the  belt  that  bound  him  to  his 
terrible  companion,  conscious  of  nothing  but  overmastering 
fear — 

"Quit  yourself  like  a  man  !" 

He  heard  the  words  through  the  drumming  in  his  ears 
and  his  heart  left  off  leaping.  His  brain  cleared.  He 
realised  that  the  Taube  was  diving  to  the  ground.  He 
switched  on  power  and  brought  down  her  tail  and  pulled  up 
her  nose  gamely.  They  passed  through  a  suffocating  mist 
of  burned  chemicals  that  deposited  red  powder  on  youi 
hands  and  face,  and  the  glass  of  your  flying-goggles,  and 
parched  your  lungs  like  burning  Cayenne  pepper — and  were 
over  the  battle-zone. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  take  it  in  the  face  of  earth  was 
moving.  Death,  like  a  many-handed  mole,  seemed  working 
underground.  Huge  geysers  of  dirt  and  mud  and  stones 
heaved  up  in  thick  black  smoke  and  vapour.  The  air  shook 
incessantly  with  reduplicated  concussions.  Buildings  tot- 
tered and  sank  away,  and  railway  bridges  melted,  and 
spurts  of  blinding  fire  leaped  from  invisible  mouths  of  guns. 

The  revolutions  were  slowing  down.  The  Taube  travelled 
painfully.  Beneath  her  bobbed  a  row  of  sausage-shaped 
observation-balloons  straining  at  their  spidery  cables, 
beyond  these  were  the  third  and  second  German  lines — 
whitish  furrows  stretching  East  and  West,  with  little  zig- 
zags, that  were  communicating-trenches,  between.  A  thin 
blue  haze  of  rifle  and  machine-gun  fire  hung  over  the  pitted 
ground.  The  Advanced  lines  behind  their  smear  of  rust- 
red  barbed  wire  might  have  been  sixty  yards  from  the  para- 
pet of  the  British  trenches.  Friend  and  foe  were  dying  there 
— and  over  the  hurh'-burly,  dodging  Death  in  puffs  of 
woolly  vapour,  belched  from  vertical  mobile  muzzles,  direct- 
ing fire,  signalling,  wirelessing,  scouting,  fighting  others 
who  assailed  signallers  or  scouters — wheeled  and  circled  the 


572  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Birds  of  War.  Their  sharp  eyes  picked  him  out  flying  far 
down  beneath  them. 

"There  goes  a  Hun  somebody's  shrapbozzled ! "  said  the 
pilot  of  a  R.A.F.B.E.,  shutting  off  to  speak  to  his  observer. 

"Going  to  crash  in  a  minute,"  said  the  observer  of  the 
Bleriot  Experimental.     '-'Where,  do  you  suppose?" 

"  If  he  keeps  on  at  that  angle,  "  said  the  pilot  from  behind 
his  glasses,  "he'll  pass  over  that  nest  of  Hun  machine-guns 
in  the  big  shell-pit  behind  the  German  Advanced  Line,  at 
about  a  hundred  and  fifty — and  pile  in  that  ploughfield 
behind  our  Gunners. " 

The  Taube  was  flying  low  and  crookedly — the  hign  cre- 
scendo whine  of  shell  passed  over  it — heavy  metal  sent  from 
German  batteries — and  other  shells  from  British  guns  were 
crashing  and  bursting  near.  The  wind  was  getting  up  in  the 
west,  and  the  drift  of  the  machine  was  trending  eastwards, 
in  spite  of  anything  Bawne  could  do.  Could  one  keep  flying 
long  enough  to  pass  the  first  line  of  British  trenches?  And 
how  would  one  come  to  the  ground,  knowing  nothing  about 
landing — and  with  a  bomb  on  board ! 

One  must  get  rid  of  the  devil-egg.  Should  one  drop  it  on 
the  enemy's  trenches?  As  he  flew  towards  them  a  rag  of 
white  fluttered,  and  Bawne  caught  his  breath.  A  long  line 
of  grey-green  men  were  jumping  like  grasshoppers  over  the 
parapet.  They  went  forwards  with  their  hands  up,  waving 
a  White  Flag,  and  from  the  British  trenches  came  men  in 
khaki  doubling  out  to  take  their  prisoners.   .   .  . 

Rat-tat-tatt ! 

The  khaki  figures  began  to  fall.  The  grey  men  were 
cheering.  .  .  .  The  rat-tatt — came  from  the  German  ma- 
chine-guns, pumping  out  jets  of  murderous  lead.  Then  in  a 
flash  Bawne  understood,  leaned  to  the  right,  and  seeing  the 
machine-gun  pit  beneath  him — pulled  out  the  pin,  jerked  up 
the  latch,  and  dropped  the  devil-egg.  Horrible  to  think,  it 
would  kill  Germans! — but  then— to  save  one's  own  dear 
Englishmen 


The  Devil-Egg  573 

"Good  Night !  Did  you  see  that  ? "  asked  the  pilot  of  the 
R.A.F.B.E.,  shutting  off  to  address  his  observer,  and  im- 
mediately switching  on  again,  for  a  geyser  of  earth  and 
stones  and  fire,  and  bits  of  things  that  had  been  men  and 
guns  had  spurted  up  from  the  spot  where  a  moment  since 
had  been  the  gun-pit,  and  troubled  waves  of  heated  air 
reached  them  at  5000. 

"He  knows  he's  got  to  come  down  crash,  and  jettisoned 
the  lollipop  to  improve  his  chances!  .  .  .  Civil  of  him  to 
drop  it  just  when  the  Deershires  were  getting  it  hot  and 
hot!  .  .  .  Deserves  thanks  from  the  British  C.  in  C, 
though  his  Kaiser  won't  be  particularly  pleased  with  him,  " 
reflected  the  R.F.C.  observer,  as  the  Taube,  flying  like  a 
bird  with  a  wounded  wing,  crossed  the  lines  of  the  British 
trenches,  dived  staggeringly,  and  crashed  down  in  the 
ploughed  field  behind  the  slogging  guns. 


CHAPTER  LXIX 

A  menace;  and  good  news 

Drip,  drip!  .  .  . 

The  slow  dropping  of  water  on  the  carpet  and  the  sweet, 
heavy  fragrance  of  roses,  brings  me  back  as  it  brought 
Patrine.  She  got  up  and  pulled  down  the  dark  blue  blinds 
with  the  precaution  that  was  becoming  habitude  with  us 
at  this  date,  in  view  of  that  often  bragged-of  menace  from 
the  sky.  She  switched  up  the  lights  and  moved  to  the  table, 
roughly  pulled  off  the  string  that  tied,  and  lifted  the  lid  of 
the  cardboard  box. 

A  rich,  sweet  fragrance  that  was  almost  musky  enveloped 
her  as  she  lifted  the  thin  paper.  A  sheaf  of  roses  of  flaming 
sanguine  crimson,  tied  with  black-and-white  striped  ribbon 
lay  beneath.  Black  and  white  are  the  Prussian  colours. 
Black,  white,  and  red  the  standard  of  the  Hohenzollern. 
Patrine  knew  that  von  Herrnung  had  sent  the  roses,  even 
before  she  recognised  his  writing  on  a  thick  white  envelope 
pinned  to  the  ribbon  binding  the  flowers. 

"  //  Isis  desires  news  of  'her  dearest',  she  will  open  and  read 
the  letter.     From  one  who  does  not  desire  to  forget.  " 

The  letter  contained  a  lock  of  hair,  jaggedly  cut — she 
knew  from  whose  sweet  head.  Half  blind  with  tears,  she 
lifted  the  lock  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it  passionately,  before 
she  bent  herself  to  read  the  careful  English  sentences  that 
revealed  the  man  in  all  his  vanity  and  lustfulness,  insolence, 
and  tyranny,  as  though  the  burin  of  Strang  or  the  brush  of 
Sargent  had  etched  him  upon  copper  or  limned  him  upon 
canvas,  to  show  the  world  what  depths  of  infamy  can  be 
plumbed  by  the  Superman. 

574 


A  Menace;  and  Good  News  575 

"Strong  Woman  of  the  race  of  moral  weaklings,  have  you  not 
yet  learned  to  be  proud  that  a  Prussian  soldier  prized  your 
beauty,  and  took  it  for  his  own?  When  the  fierce  men  in  the 
proud  German  Field-grey  have  swarmed  over  the  soil  of  England^ 
— when,  amidst  the  squadron  of  night-birds  whose  feathers 
gleam  mysteriously  in  the  pale  moonlight,  thy  lover  flics  onward^ 
singing  his  war-song,  laden  with  his  cargo  of  explosives — when 
the  Red  Cock  crows  on  the  roof-trees  of  London's  wilderness  of 
houses  and  London's  fire-bells,  amidst  terrific  explosions,  ring 
out  the  last  battle  of  the  century,  will  Isis  then  think  of  me  ? 
Revolvers,  carbines,  bombs,  and  poisoned  arrows  are  among  the 
gifts  I  shall  bring  thee  in  the  hand  that  ivears  the  mascot  pearl 
of  black  and  ivhite.  Coloured  signalling-balls  set  in  the  silver  of 
the  searchlight,  shall  be  thy  tiara;  for  thy  arms  and  thy  white 
bosom  there  will  be  strings  of  rubies  outpoured  from  the  broken 
coffers  of  the  House  of  Life.  Our  second  nuptials  will  be 
celebrated  by  a  mitred  Death,  amidst  the  smoking  ruins  of  West- 
minster Abbey,  to  the  roaring  strains  of  the  German  Anthem y 
'Now  Praise  Ye  the  Lord.'  Till  then  au  revoir !  shall  one 
perhaps  say  7 

''Ah,  were  Isis  of  the  burning  beech-leaf  tresses  not  only- 
beautiful  but  wise,  she  would  place  her  hand  in  the  hand  that 
stretches  yearningly  over  the  North  Sea.  I  wish  love  more  than 
vengeance;  is  not  that  unnatural  for  a  Him?  A  golden  con- 
sciousness of  happiness  yet  to  come  wells  up  within  me.  Would 
Isis  taste  that  happiness,  let  her  go  to  her  window  and  open  it 
on  the  night  of  the  day  that  brings  this  letter.  There  are  no 
Germans  in  England  who  are  not  in  priso?i  or  imder  espionage. 
No,  possibly  !  yet  go  to  thy  window  I  A  %vord  to  him  who  waits 
there,  and  Isis  is  once  more  mine.  But  beware  of  turning  my 
tenderness  by  scornful  rejection  to  hatred.  Cold  devil! — / 
should  then  strike,  and  frightfully,  at  the  head  whence  came  this 
hair.     Look  at  it  well  and  answer.  T.  v.  H." 

She  could  turn  no  paler,  her  hue  was  that  of  death  already. 
She  dropped  the  loathsome  letter  from  her  hand  upon  the 


57^  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

roses  and  thrust  the  lock  of  hair  into  her  bosom,  and  went 
to  a  window  and  touched  the  spring  of  the  blind,  It  flew 
up  and  revealed  her  tall  shape  standing  there  silhouetted 
against  the  electric  radiance  in  defiance  of  that  boasted 
menace  from  the  sky. 

The  street  seemed  empty,  within  the  radius  of  her  vision, 
save  for  the  dark  bulk  of  a  motor-car,  standing  before  a 
house  on  the  same  side  some  way  down.  Its  headlights 
flashed,  once,  twice,  and  again,  as  though  in  answer.  It 
slid  forwards  with  a  low  hissing  sound :  "  Ss'sh!"  it  said,  as  if 
in  gluttonous  anticipation,  and  stopped  opposite  the  hall- 
door.  Again  the  headlights  flashed,  there  was  a  gleam  of 
yellow  enamel.  She  recognised  the  Darracq  car  in  which 
von  Herrnung  had  driven  her  to  Fanshaw's  Flying  Ground 
on  that  unforgettable  eighteenth  of  July. 

Holding  her  breath,  narrowing  her  long-sighted  eyes  for 
better  focus,  she  scrutinised  the  driver,  recognising  in  the 
thick-set  figure  hunched  over  the  steering-wheel,  wearing  a 
peaked  cap  pulled  low  over  his  forehead,  and  a  wide  white 
muffler  twisted  round  his  throat,  the  German  who  had 
brought  the  message  from  the  Three  in  the  blue  F.I.A.T. 
car.  She  was  sure  of  him  when  he  touched  his  cap,  looking 
furtively  up  at  the  window,  and  switched  on  a  small  electric 
bulb,  illtmiinating  the  clock  upon  the  dashboard  as  though 
to  afford  her  a  view  of  his  face.  Its  bloodshot  pale  eyes, 
thick  broad  nose,  and  the  unwholesome,  purplish  colour  of 
the  complexion,  barred  with  a  big  light  yellowish  moustache 
with  waxed  ends,  had  stuck  in  her  memory  as  ugly  personal 
traits  will  stick.  Of  the  slenderer  man  beside  him  she  had 
no  recollection.  He  was  buttoned  up  in  an  overcoat  with  a 
fur  collar,  and  wore  a  soft  felt  hat.  She  felt  the  eyes  it 
shadowed  were  fastened  on  her,  and  recoiled  as  though  from 
the  touch  of  something  unclean  and  horrible,  roughly  drag- 
ging down  the  blind. 

She  was  brave,  but  the  sense  of  being  almost  alone  in  the 
house  with  those  alert,  observant  eyes  outside,  spying  upon 


A  Menace ;  and  Good  News  577 

her  movements,  made  her  heart  beat  stiffocatingly,  and 
brought  chill  damps  of  deadly  terror  to  the  surface  of  her 
skin.  She  moved  to  a  chair  with  a  clogging  sense  of  ulti- 
mate effort — the  nightmare  feeling  of  striving  against  a 
powerful  hypnotic  influence,  bidding  her  creep  downstairs 
and  open  the  street-door,  step  into  the  car  waiting  at  the 
kerbstone,  and  be  borne  away  by  rushing  wheels  and  whirl- 
ing screws,  or  even  swifter  wings,  perhaps,  to  that  War-torn 
land  where  von  Herrnung  was  waiting  to  exact  his  price  for 
sparing  the  beloved  head. 

She  drew  the  lock  of  hair  from  her  bosom  and  whispered 
inarticulate  tendernesses  to  it,  stroking  its  red-gold  beauty 
with  fingers  and  lips.  Not  until  now  those  broad  white 
strands  amongst  the  reddish-gold  conveyed  their  sinister 
meaning.  When  it  came  it  was  like  a  blow  delivered  full 
between  the  eyes.  She  swayed  forwards  and  fell  upon  her 
knees  beside  the  table,  her  forehead  resting  on  the  clenched 
hand  that  held  the  boy's  hair.  All  that  was  maternal  in  her 
fierce,  undisciplined  nature  urged  her  now  to  make  the 
sacrifice.  Remorse  for  having  forgotten  the  child  in  her 
absorbing  love  for  Sherbrand,  was  a  scourge  of  fiery  scor- 
pions that  urged  her  to  the  leap. 

Its  uselessness,  the  certainty  that  von  Herrnung  w^ould 
keep  no  hinted  promise  to  restore  the  hostage,  would  have 
been  no  argument  to  deter  her.  Sherbrand's  influence 
might  have  counterpoised,  but  she  had  sent  away  Sherbrand 
for  his  own  sake.  Now  she  would  go  to  Bawne,  buy  him 
back  with  body  and  soul,  if  need  be,  from  the  hands  of  the 
torturer,  or  at  least  share  his  agony  and  die  by  his  side. 

Madness  was  near  enough  that  night  to  sweep  her  tattered 

robe  before  the  eyes  of  Patrine,  and  beckon  cnticingl}'  with 

her  sceptre  of  plaited  straw.     She  was  alone  and  she  had 

borne  so  much,  and  nothing  else  could  save  Lynette's  boy — 

unless  it  were  a  miracle !     Where  was  God — where  was  God 

now?     Upon  that  July  night  of  the  child's  spiriting  away 

Sherbrand   had   bidden   her  pray   that   Bawne  might   be 
37 


578  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

restored  to  them.  She  had  petitioned  in  a  perfunctory  way 
when  she  had  thanked  God  for  taking  away  von  Herrnung — 
that  the  child  might  be  traced  and  brought  back.  Now  she 
clenched  her  hands  until  the  nails  dug  into  their  palms,  and 
groaned  out,  as  the  dry  sobs  racked  her  body,  words  that 
sensed  after  this  fashion : 

"Save  him,  save  him!  For  Christ's  love  save  him — and 
give  him  back !  For  the  dear  sakes  of  those  to  whom  I  have 
been  so  ungrateful!  hear  me — only  hear  me!  and  I  will — be 
difi[erent.  I  will  serve  Thee,  O  God,  who  have  ignored 
Thee!     I  will  confess  Thee,  I  who  have  denied!  ..." 

Mean,  base,  said  her  pride,  to  kneel  and  entreat  Him 
whom  you  have  neglected  and  insulted.  Even  though 
He  heard,  do  you  think  that  He  would  answer  now?  But 
with  desperate  effort  she  thrust  away  the  thought  from  her. 
The  Hound  of  Heaven  had  leaped  upon  her,  flying.  She 
felt  his  teeth  in  her  garm^ents,  holding  her  back  from  the 
invisible  hands  that  dragged  at  her.  She  knew  that  unseen 
forces  of  Good  and  Evil  were  engaged  in  furious  battle  for 
her  soul.  .  .  .  And  strangling,  she  gasped  out  incoherent 
sentences,  wild  appeals  to  the  Divine  Pity.  ...  In  the 
midst  of  these,  startling  her  like  a  thunderclap,  came  a 
hurried  knocking  at  the  door. 
"Miss  Pat!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Keyse,  and  as  Patrine  stumbled 
to  her  feet  and  stood  wild-eyed  and  shaking,  the  little, 
matronly  figure  in  the  black  silk  gown  of  housekeeperly 
dignity  appeared  upon  the  threshold  of  the  room. 

"You — wanted  me,  Mrs.  Keyse?     Is  it  about  the — the 

yellow  car?     Have  they " 

The  hoarse  voice  and  the  white,  wrung  face  conveyed  to 
an  ardent  lover  of  Patrine  that  something  was  wrong  with 
her  Doctor's  niece.  Tragedy  was  in  the  air — but  Discretion 
is  the  better  Part  of  Value,  and  nobody  knew  better  than 
Emrigation  Jane  what  fierce  passions  could  boil  in  the  Sax- 
ham  blood. 


A  Menace;  and  Good  News  579 

"No,  Miss  Pat.  It's  not  the  car,  yet,  though  I  fancied  I 
'eard  one  stop  here  a  minute  back.  It's  the  telephone  in  the 
consultin'  room  ringin',  and  ringin', — and  Chewse  gone  to 
bed,  "  Chewse  being  the  trained  maid  who  admitted  patients 
and  received  messages.  "And  me  with  the  best  will  in  the 
world  never  could  make  'ead  or  tail  of  them  tellermessages — 
except  the  'ulloing!  And  pre'aps  you'd  come  and  write 
downfor  the  Doctor  whatever  it  is  they've  got  to  say.  .  .  ." 

"Very  well.     Don't  wait,  I'm  coming  directly!" 

Mrs.  Keyse  vanished,  and  with  that  dreamlike  sense  of 
unreality  upon  her,  Patrine  followed  downstairs  and  passed 
along  the  silent  corridor.  The  electric  lamp  above  the 
Doctor's  table  had  been  switched  on.  She  took  the  Doc- 
tor's chair  and  rang-up  and  waited,  sitting  where  Saxham 
had  sat  when  Lynette's  sweet  lips  first  touched  his  forehead 
— where  the  big  man  had  planned  self-murder  in  the  darkest 
hour  of  his  despair.  The  frayed  patch  on  the  Persian  rug 
beneath  her  feet  had  been  worn  by  Saxham's  usage.  The 
triptych  frame  that  held  the  portraits  of  Lynette  and 
Bawne  drew  Patrine's  eyes  as  she  sat  waiting,  and  the 
clench  of  her  big  white  hand  upon  the  table-ledge,  the  bend 
of  her  black  brows  and  the  stern  sorrow  stamped  upon  her 
face  made  her  likeness  to  the  Doctor  more  than  ever  appar- 
ent now. 

"Halloa!"  she  called,  and  the  brusque  harshness  of  her 
own  voice  was  startlingly  like  Saxham's.  A  sense  of 
Destiny  oppressed  her.  She  felt  as  one  stifling  in  a  vacuum 
— drowning  for  lack  of  air.  Her  prayers  had  rolled  back 
upon  her  soul  unanswered.  The  sense  of  spiritual  desola- 
tion intensified  her  desperate  loneliness.  No  good  to  pray 
and  cling  until  you  broke  your  nails  to  that  great  Rock  that 
upholds  the  Crucifix.  Better  let  go,  and  be  carried  away  by 
the  torrent.  Signs  and  wonders  are  not  wrought  in  these 
days! — said  that  other  Patrine  within  Patrine — and  if  any 
were,  there  would  be  no  miracle.  You  fool,  you  fool,  to 
dream  of  one ! 


58o  That  Which  Hath  Wines 


&• 


She  was  sorry  for  herself  as  she  sat  there  waiting.  This 
little  duty  done,  she  would  rise  and  obey  that  sinister 
summons  from  the  outer  darkness.  Nothing  on  earth  nor  in 
Heaven  could  help  or  prevent.  The  sudden  tinkle  of  the 
bell  came  at  this  juncture.  The  call  was  in  Sir  Roland's 
well-known  voice. 

"Halloa!  .  .  .     Is  that  you,  Saxham?" 

"Halloa!"  she  called  back  in  that  voice  so  strangely  like 
his  and  unlike  her  own. 

"Good!     Well,  my  true  friend  and  faithful  coadjutor  of 
old  time, "  said  the  crisp  voice,  shaken  a  little  as  though  by 
some  irrepressible  emotion  or  excitement,  "some  news  has 
been  communicated  to  us  by  Wireless  that  will  lift  up  your 
heart  and  your  wife's.     Are  you  listening.?  .  .  .     To-day, 
about  six  p.m.,  near  Langebeke,  north-west  of  Ypres,  at  the 
moment  of  the  White  Flag  ruse  that  cost  the  Deershire 
Regiment  two  hundred  men,  a  two-seater  Taube,  flying  low, 
as  though  something  were  the  matter  with  her  engine,  came 
wobbling  over  the  British  lines.     Nobody  shot  at  her — she 
had  just  given  our  side  sufficient  reason  for  consideration 
by  dropping  a  highly-effective  bomb  on  a  wasp's  nest  of 
German    machine-gunners — and    she    crashed    to    ground 
behind   a   battery   of  First   Corps   R.F.A.     Her   German 
pilot  had  been  frightfully  wounded.     His  passenger,  who 
sat  in  his  lap  to  steer — and  dropped  the  bomb! — escaped 
with  a  shake-up.     You've  got  the  story?     Then,  here's  the 
tag  of  it.     We've  got  your  boy!     Bawne  was  the  lucky 
fellow  who  only  got  a  shaking.    He  arrives  at  Charing  Cross 
to-night  at  twelve  sharp!" 

He  added,  as  a  stifled  cry  travelled  over  the  wire: 

"Congratulations  with  all  my  heart,  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Saxham.  And  to  Miss  Pat,  though  I'm  afraid  she  pays, 
poor  girl,  in  sorrow  for  your  joy.  There  is  a  report  that 
Sherbrand's  Bird  of  War  No.  2  has  been  shot  down  by  a 
Zeppelin  he  encountered  returning  to  the  Front  from  Eng- 
land to-day,  to  supply  the  place  of  an  R.F.C.  pilot— killed 


A  Menace;  and  Good  News  581 

while  on  observation-service  near  St.  Yves — for  Callenby's 
Cavalry  Corps. " 

There  was  a  stifled  sound  of  interrogation  or  an  exclama- 
tion.    The  Chief  continued: 

"He  had  no  bombs.  It  was  madness  to  attack  with  only 
a  Maxim  and  their  magazine-revolvers,  but  glorious  mad- 
ness worth  a  thousand  sane,  reasonable  acts.  As  it  is,  the 
Zeppelin — supposed  to  have  been  on  her  way  from  Ostend  to 
bomb  St.  0 — was  badly  crippled  and  compelled  to  turn 
back.  It  was  a  shell  from  one  of  her  Q.F.'s  that  exploded 
Sherbrand's  petrol-tank  and  set  the  Bird  on  fire.  The 
machine  was  seen  to  fall  in  flames  near  Dixschoote — held  by 
the  Germans.  Sherbrand  and  his  observer  must  be  prison- 
ers— that  is,  supposing  they're  alive.  Hard  luck!  Break 
it  gently  to  the  poor  girl!     Good-night!" 

There  was  no  answering  Good-night,  only  a  faint  thud 
and  rustle.  Sir  Roland  did  not  guess  what  he  had  done  as 
he  rang  off  and  hung  the  receiver  up.  And  Lynette,  com- 
ing into  the  consulting-room,  noiselessly  as  a  pale  moon- 
beam, found  a  big  galimiphing  girl  she  loved  lying 
huddled  between  the  chair  and  table,  with  her  white  face 
pressed  against  the  spot  worn  threadbare  by  the  Doctor's 
feet. 

Coincidence,  you  say,  perhaps.  Well,  but  what  is  Coinci- 
dence? Is  it  a  Dust-wind  careering  over  the  Desert  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Pyramids,  playing  with  straw  and 
twigs  and  dead  locusts'  wings,  and  one  stray  fragment  of 
printed  paper,  as  a  Mounted  Division  of  the  British  Ex- 
peditionary Force  encamped  upon  the  slope  not  far  from 
Gizeh,  ride  out  with  the  dawn  to  exercise  their  horses  on  the 
plain  that  is  partly  flooded  by  the  Nile  ?  Or  is  it  the  ragged 
quarter-sheet  torn  from  an  English  newspaper,  that  wraps 
itself  about  the  spurred  ankle  of  the  big  blond  young  Eng- 
lishman who  rides  the  vicious  chestnut  mare  ? 

Long  lines  of  horses  marching  in  threes  for  miles,  black 


582  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

and  coffee-coloured  natives  in  flowing  jubbehs  mixed  up 
with  tanned  young  British  Centaurs  in  sun-helmets  and 
khaki  shorts — and  the  rag  of  paper  clings  to  the  leg  of  the 
one  man  there  whom  its  news  concerns.  She  who  is  dearer 
than  all  save  Honour  is  once  more  a  free  woman, — and  his 
faith  and  constancy  are  to  meet  their  reward.  His  letter 
lies  before  me;  a  sentence  pencilled  more  blackly  than 
the  rest  stands  out  upon  the  yellowish  paper: 

' '  If  this  be  accident  it  is  incredible.  If  Design,  it  is  miracu- 
lous. And  I  had  rather  thank  Heaven  for  a  miracle  vouch- 
safed than  owe  even  such  happiness — to  Chance.  " 

When  the  deep  swoon  gave  place  to  semi-consciousness, 
the  pale  lips  uttered  nothing  but  broken  words.  Locked 
awa}^  safely  behind  them  was  the  glorious  news  that  would 
have  changed  two  people's  lives.  Thus  Lynette  was  still 
ignorant  of  her  own  great  happiness,  when  having  helped 
Patrine  upstairs  to  her  room  and  put  her  tenderly  to  bed, 
she  dismissed  Mrs.  Keyse  to  her  own  slumbers,  and  took 
her  place  beside  Patrine 's  pillow,  Hstening  to  the  sighing 
breaths  that  were  growing  deeper  and  fuller,  keenly  alert  for 
the  sound  of  the  Doctor's  latch-key  and  the  Doctor's  step 
in  the  hall. 

It  was  close  upon  the  smallest  hour.  Something  had 
detained  Saxham.  Sitting  in  the  darkened  room  beside  the 
long  prone  shape  beneath  the  coverings,  Lynette  was  free  to 
lean  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  chair  she  sat  in  and 
yield  herself  to  the  bitter  sweetness  of  memories  of  her  lost 
boy. 

What  the  sorrow  of  Shakespeare  wrought  in  deathless 
lines  no  halting  pen  like  mine  dare  strive  to  portray. 
Enough  that  the  beloved  little  ghost  that  haunted  the 
woman  whose  heart  was  breaking,  was  closer  than  ever 
to  Lynette  on  this  night.  All  day  the  sweet  obsession  had 
thiust  itself  between  Bawne's  mother  and  solid,  tangible 


A  Menace  ;  and  Good  News  583 

things.  The  red-gold  sheen  of  the  boyish  head,  the  gay- 
blue  challenge  of  the  laughing  eyes,  the  coaxing  tones  of  the 
treble  voice  had  tortured  the  senses  they  deceived.  She 
had  thrust  him  away  with  both  hands,  for  ordinary,  com- 
monplace duties  claimed,  and  yielding  led  the  way  to  mad- 
ness. He  had  come  back  again  and  again,  to  be  driven 
away  once  more.  Now  that  her  hands  lay  idle  in  her 
lap — now  that  she  was  withdrawn  from  the  world  and  its 
realities,  the  beloved  little  ghost  returned  and  had  his  will 
with  her. 

Sitting  in  the  haunted  gloom,  a  strange  conviction  came 
to  Lynette.  This  was  not  Grief,  travestying  in  the  figure  of 
the  absent,  but  a  visitation  from  the  World  Unseen.  .  .  . 
Bawne  was  dead,  and  had  been  dragged  back  from  the 
threshold  of  the  Beyond  by  her  own  unbridled  yearnings. 
Could  there  be  a  punishment  more  terrible  than  this? 
Only  those  who  have  loved  and  lost,  and  clinging  to  their 
faith  in  a  Future  Life,  strive  to  bear  patiently  the  burden 
of  bereavement,  can  comprehend  the  torture  of  this  woman 
in  this  hour. 

The  Presence  grew  more  torturingly  tangible.  The 
empty  shell  of  the  house  that  had  been  Bawne's  home  was 
full  of  his  callings,  his  movements,  his  play,  his  laughter. 
She  heard  his  quick  soft  breathing  behind  her  chair  in  the 
darkness.  Once  she  could  have  vowed  that  a  hard  little 
boyish  hand  brushed  against  her  cheek.  Then  she  was 
alone  once  more,  except  for  the  unconscious  sleeper.  And 
then  the  torture  began  all  over  again. 

Bawne  was  coming  home,  late,  from  the  Hendon  Flying 
Ground.  The  long  months  of  misery — the  horror  of  the 
War — had  been  a  dreadful  dream.  She  heard  the  long 
br'r'  of  the  electric  hall-bell  under  the  impetuous  insistent 
finger — the  small  scurry  of  his  entrance,  a  squawk  from  the 
maid  who  answered  night-calls — a  whispered  word  or  two, 
and  the  clumping  of  the  heavy  little  brogues  upon  the 
stairs.    Would  he  trip  at  the  corner  where  he  always  stubbed 


584  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

his  toe?  she  wondered — and  she  plainly  heard  him  stumble. 
Then  her  hair  stiffened  upon  her  head,  and  a  long  shudder 
rippled  through  her.  The  little  clumping  brogues  had 
stopped  before  Patrine's  bedroom  door. 

''Mother!" 

His  voice  called,  and  his  well-known  thimip  came  on  the 
door-panel.  The  handle  clicked.  She  controlled  her 
shuddering  and  forced  her  stiffened  tongue  to  speech. 

"  Come  in,  my  own  !" 

The  tall  door  swung  slowly  inwards.  A  wedge  of  bright- 
ness from  the  lighted  landing  threw  his  shadow  over  the 
white-enamelled  door-post.  .  .  .  The  darkness  of  the 
room  soaked  it  greedily  up.  Then  the  doorway  was  a 
square  of  radiance  with  a  little  ghostly  figure  framed  in  it. 
All  the  light  was  behind  him.  She  could  not  see  his  face, 
but  she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her.  .  .  .  Then  the  voice  that 
her  ears  were  sick  for  said  with  a  quaver  in  its  treble : 

"It's  dark,  but  I  can  hear  you  breathing!  .  .  .  Mother, 
why  didn't  you  and  Father  come  ?  I  thought  when  I  got  there 
I'd  be  sure  to  see  you!  .  .  .  But  amongst  all  those  faces 
and  faces  not  one  was  yours — and — Man  alive ! — I  wanted 
to  blub  a  bit!    I'm  not  quite  sure  that  I  didn't,  you  know!" 

She  stetched  her  arms  to  the  beloved  little  ghost,  whisper- 
ing: 

"My  poor,  poor  love,  my  baby,  my  treasure!  Mother 
knows  how  much  it  hurt.  But  be  patient  a  little  longer. 
Soon — soon — your  father  and  I " 

The  woe-wave  rose  and  swelled  in  her  bosom,  tears  began 
to  run  over  her  stiff  white  face.  The  clasped  hands  she 
stretched  to  him  were  quivering,  but  she  controlled  them 
like  the  trembling  of  her  voice. 

"Go  back  to  Paradise,  my  little  son!  Wait  patiently, 
my  love,  my  Angel !  I  have  been  wrong,  but  I  will  grieve  no 
more!     I  will  be  patient — 0!  believe " 

A  man's  footsteps  sounded  on  the  staircase  and  the  great 
shadowy  figure  of  the  Doctor  appeared  behind  Bawne's 


A  Menace;  and  Good  News  585 

little  shape.  With  a  swift  movement  Saxham  caught  up 
the  bewildered  boy,  made  one  long  stride  across  the  thresh- 
old, and  put  the  warm,  living  treasure  into  the  mother's 
outstretched  arms.  .  . 

Once  again  big  black-lettered  contents-bills  shrieked 
from  the  railings  and  were  worn  after  the  fashion  of  her- 
alds' tabards  by  the  vendors  of  newspapers,  and  the  editions 
were  snapped  up  as  fast  as  they  came  out.  Here  are  some 
of  the  headlines : 

"thrilling  escape  of  kidnapped  boy  scout  from  the 

HANDS  OF  the  HUN.  YOUNG  HERO  OF  NORTH  SEA  ADVEN- 
TURE LANDS  BEHIND  BRITISH  LINES  AT  LANGEBEKE  IN  TAUBE 
WITH  A  BOCHE  PRISONER.  FULL  STORY  OF  HOW  SCOUT  WTIO 
SAVED  THE  CLANRONALD  PAPERS  BOMBED  THE  GERMAN 
MACHINE-GUNS.  DECORATION  OF  SCOUT  SAXHAM  WITH 
'golden  wolf'  BADGE  BY  ROYAL  PRESIDENT  AT  ASSOCIA- 
TION HEADQUARTERS.  PROBABLE  TESTIMONIAL  FROM  BRIT- 
ISH PUBLIC.  AFTERNOON  TEA  WITH  THE  WAR  MINISTER  AT 
WHITEHALL.  EXPECTED  INVESTITURE  WITH  EDWARDIAN 
ORDER  OF   MERIT.        WHAT   YOU    GET   BY   BEING   PREPARED!" 

And  again: 

"  SPLENDID  PLUCK  OF  BRITISH  AVIATOR.  FIGHTS  ZEPPELIN 
ON  WAY  TO  BOMB  BRITISH  HEADQUARTERS.  AIRSHIP  CRIP- 
PLED. SHERBRAND  R.F.C.  KILLED.  FALLS  IN  FLAMES  OVER 
GERMAN  LINES.  HEROIC  END  OF  SOLE  REMAINING  HEIR  TO 
PENINSULAR  WAR  EARLDOM,  AND  INVENTOR  OF  THE  HAWK- 
HOVERER  THAT  SOLVES  PROBLEM  OF  STABILITY.  WILL  WAR 
OFFICE  ADOPT  GREAT  INVENTION,  EMPLOYED  BY  ALLIES*  FLY- 
ING SERVICES?" 

Three  days  later : 

"SHERBRAND  R.F.C.  RECEIVES  POSTHUMOUS  HONOURS 
FROM  FRANCE  AND  BELGIUM.  CROIX  D'HONNEUR  AND  ORDER 
OF   LEOPOLD.      WHY  NOT  BRITISH   D.S.O.?" 


CHAPTER  LXX 

A  lover's  journey 

The  crossing — in  this  Arctic  April  weather  when  all  of 
Britain  and  Belgivun  and  North-West  France  lay  under 
snowdrifts — had  been  calm  and  smooth  enough  for  the  worst 
sea-stomachs  on  the  steamer.  The  tall  young  woman  in  the 
Navy  blue  felt  hat  with  the  well-known  V.A.D.  ribbon,  and 
the  long  blue  serge  coat  with  the  Red  Cross  shield-badge  on 
the  left  breast,  seemed  used  to  travelling  alone  in  War-time. 
She  had  secured  a  dry  chair,  set  in  the  shelter  of  the  after- 
deck-saloon,  and  a  lifebelt  as  stipulated  by  the  authorities, 
and  tucked  herself  in  her  travelling-rug  with  her  suit-case 
under  her  feet  before  the  lights  went  out.  Thus  she  had 
remained  throughout  the  passage,  with  her  dark  eyes  looking 
seawards,  as  deaf  to  occasional  bursts  of  uproarious  song 
from  a  draft  of  returning  Blighties  packed  on  the  lower-deck, 
as  to  the  siren's  raucous  shrieks. 

Courteous  fellow-passengers,  chiefly  British  and  Belgian 
officers  returning  from  leave,  would  have  been  ready  enough 
to  have  chatted  with  the  young  woman  who  was  going  to  the 
Front.  Such  attentions  as  they  offered  her  she  accepted 
frankly.  One  got  her  tea  and  sandwiches,  another  offered 
chocolate,  another  a  foot-warmer.  Yet  another  insisted  on 
lending  her  an  unnecessary  extra  rug.  They  pointed  out  the 
hovering  Fleet  hydroplanes,  and  the  diligently-scouting 
searchlights  of  the  destroyers  guarding  the  sea-way,  and  the 
Hull-bound  Dutch  liner  whose  neutrality  was  proclaimed 
in  illtmiinated  side-letters,  blazing  like  a  sea-Alhambra  upon 
the  east  horizon,  and  the  Hospital  ship  that  passed  close, 
coming  from  Boulogne  laden  with  wounded,  the  huge  Red 
Cross  upon  her  flank  picked  out  with  blazing  green  lights. 

586 


A  Lover's  Journey  587 

One  and  all  united  in  assuring  the  wearer  of  the  V.A.D. 
uniform  that  there  was  no  danger.  Though  when  the  red 
and  green  eyes  on  the  ends  of  the  East  and  West  jetties 
winked  into  sight  over  the  coal-black  shining  water,  her 
fellow-passengers  congratulated  Patrine  as  heartily  as 
though  some  peril  had  been  escaped. 

"Nothing  more  doing,  Pinkums,  old  thing!"  said  an 
experienced  youngster  of  twenty  to  a  susceptible  senior 
whom  Patrine's  unprotected  condition  had  roused  to  a 
strong  sense  of  responsibility.  "She's  got  enough  passes 
from  British  and  French  Headquarters  to  make  a  poker- 
hand.  I  saw  her  showin'  'em  to  the  authorities  at  Folke- 
stone. Besides,  have  heart,  there's  a  Red  Tab  here  to 
meet  her.     We'd  better  hence  it  before  we're  snubbed.  " 

And  they  saluted,  and  clattered  down  the  crowded  gang- 
way, grabbing  their  valises  and  buttoning  up  their  British 
warms,  and  hurried  away  to  get  into  trench-kit,  webbings, 
and  waders,  and  swell  the  crowd  in  the  railway-station — 
waiting  to  go  up  to  the  Front  and  carry  on  with  the  hourly, 
momentary  game  of  touch-and-go  with  Death. 

While  Patrine  looked  eagerly  about  her,  listening  to  the 
hum  of  the  vast  human  beehive.  This  was  not  the  big 
rambling,  old-fashioned  French  seaport  one  had  known  so 
well  before  the  War.  Under  sky-blind  arc-lights  and  red, 
green,  and  white  lamps,  every  form  of  activity  imaginable 
in  connection  with  the  running  of  that  now  huge  and  com- 
plicated machine,  the  British  Field  Army,  seemed  even  at 
this  hour  to  be  in  full  swing.  The  nimble  of  steam-cranes 
and  the  roar  of  dynamos,  the  panting  of  pneumatic  hold- 
dischargers,  the  clank  of  couplings,  and  the  shrieks  of  loco- 
motives mingled  with  the  tinny  voices  of  gramophones  from 
the  recreation-rooms  at  the  great  packed  barracks  and 
crowded  camps,  and  the  sounds  of  song  and  laughter  and 
applause  from  music-halls  and  picture-palaces. 

"Yes,  it  goes  on  most  of  the  time,  "  said  the  Red  Tab  who 
had  come  to  meet  Patrine,  an  officer  upon  the  Staff  of  the 


588  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Commandant  of  a  Headquarters  not  far  from — a  certain 
place  where  Miss  Saxham  wished  to  go.  "The  Army's  got 
to  be  rationed  and  equipped  and  horsed  and  foraged,  and 
timbered  and  coaled  and  petroled  and  munitioned,  as  well  as 
cobbled  and  engineered  and  patched  and  tinkered  and 
nursed — don't  you  follow  me?  And  these  Base  Ports  are 
jolly  useful.  Nobody  goes  to  bed  much,  I  fancy.  Perhaps 
they'll  make  up  the  sleep  they've  lost  by-and-by,  after  the 
War." 

' '  What-ho,  Nubbins !  Back  from  the  Old  Shop  ?  Sorry ! 
— didn't  happen  to  see  you  weren't  alone!" 

The  station  had  vomited  a  flood  of  khaki,  tumbling  down 
the  half-lit  quays  to  take  later  boats  by  storm.  A  tall, 
lanky  officer  of  Gunners  had  hailed  Red  Tab  effusively; 
then,  seeing  him  to  be  engaged  with  a  lady,  hurried  on  with 
apologies  and  a  salute  for  Patrine. 

"Don't  mind  me !  Do  call  back  your  friend,  "  she  urged. 
"He  seemed  so  glad  to  see  you." 

"Thanks  much.     If  you  don't  mind.     Whewip!     Whe- 

wip!" 

And  the  other,  recalled  by  a  shrill  whistle,  wheeled  and 
came  back  upon  his  stride,  to  grasp  the  offered  hand. 
Whereupon,  ensued  the  following  strictly  private  duologue: 

"How  goes  the  Battery?" 

"First  class.     And  your  crowd?" 

"Crawling  along  as  per,  usual.  Congrats  on  the  Oud- 
styde  affair ! ' ' 

"Thanks  frightfully!  But  the  whole  thing  was  a  bit  of 
a  fluke — everyone  knows  that.  They  had  thrown  down  a 
gas-attack  and  the  wind  went  about-face.  So  we  stayed 
where  we  were  and  shelled  them  through  their  chlorine. 
Then  they  got  their  Reserves  up  and  came  on  in  lumps — 
the  old  Zulu  formation — and  Pyers  and  his  Engineers  got  to 
work  with  the" — the  speaker's  voice  dropped  to  an  under- 
tone— "what  Pyers  calls  the  'Piffbozzler. '" 

"The  rose  by  any  other  name "  quoted  Red  Tab,  and 


A  Lover's  Journey  589 

went  on:  "I'd  have  given  a  tenner  to  have  been  there! — 
and  as  for  old  Clanronald — I  wonder  if  he  got  leave  from — 
wherever  he  is — to  see  the  stunt  that  day  ? ' ' 

Said  the  Gunner: 

"If  he  did — and  had  such  a  thing  as  a  stomach  about 
him,  he  must  have  simply — vomited!  Pyers  says  he  felt 
like  the  Angel  with  the  Flaming  Sword — when  he  didn't 
feel  like  an  Indian  jeweller  with  a  blowpipe — frizzling  a 
column  of  white  ants  marching  over  the  floor.  You've 
seen  how  the  things  come  on  and  on " 

"Yahgh!"  remarked  Red  Tab  expressively. 

"But — just  for  once — we  didn't  happen  to  be  on  the 
frizzled  side.  The  C.  in  C.  has  laughed  to  the  verge  of 
hysterics  over  a  leader  in  the  Berlin  Lokal  Anzeiger,  with 
reference  to  the  realised  dream  of  the  '  homicidal  maniac ' 
Clanronald.  *A  deplorable  example  of  the  perversion  of  Die 
Wissenschaft  at  the  murderous  hands  of  English  military 
chemists, '  they  called  it.  Pretty  neat  from  Boches  who've 
been  pumping  burning  paraffin  into  our  trenches,  and 
suffocating  platoons  of  men  with  asphyxiating  gases,  ever 
since  May. " 

"And  particularly  appropriate  from  people  who  bribed  a 
crack  Professor  of  Literature  to  engage  as  librarian  at  Gwyll 
Castle — set  the  Library  Wing  on  fire  and  steal  the  portfolio 
with  the  plans  of  the  'homicidal  maniac'  three  weeks  before 
the  War — when  Prinz  Heinrich  and  old  Moltke  were  stop- 
ping in  London.  They'd  promised  their  agent  twelve 
million  marks  if  he  succeeded.  Wonder  what  he  got  from 
them  when  the  plot  fizzled  out?  Well,  so-long!  Any 
message  for  Edith  ? ' 

"Tell  her  you  saw  me  topping,  and  remember  me  to  your 
wife!" 

And  they  gripped  hands  and  parted,  and  Red  Tab  hur- 
ried back  to  the  tall  young  woman  waiting  on  the  flagstones 
under  a  blue  shaded  arc-lamp,  saying: 

"Good  of  you  not  to  mind.     But  a  shame  to  keep  3^ou 


590  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

Waiting.  No — we  go  out  at  this  gate.  I've  got  a  car  wait- 
ing. More  cushy  than  a  crowded  railway-carriage — unless 
you'd  have  preferred  going  by  train?" 

The  grey  landaulette  waiting  in  the  side-street  presented 
no  more  unusual  feature  than  unusually  heavy  armoured 
tj^res,  and  a  guard  of  razor-edged  steel  bars  protecting  the 
front  seat. 

"In  case  of  barbed  wire — strung  across  country  roads," 
explained  Red  Tab.  "One  runs  a  chance  of  getting  decapi- 
tated— travelling  fast  at  night — or  in  foggy  weather — with- 
out a  jigger  of  this  sort.  Let  me  stick  this  cushion  at  your 
back  and  tuck  the  rugs  about  you.  There's  a  Thermos  in 
the  pocket  with  hot  coffee— and  sandwiches  in  a  box.  Don't 
restrain  your  appyloose  if  you  feel  at  all  hungry !  The  grub 
was  put  in  specially  for  you.  No :  you  won't  hear  the  guns 
yet,  except  at  intervals,  and  rather  faintly.  Fact —  I've 
heard  'em  in  the  South  of  England  more  distinctly  than  one 
does  here!  But  at  St.  0 — ,  twenty-eight  miles  from  the 
Front — they're  loud  enough  at  times — though  there's 
nothing  much  doing.  Things  have  been  as  dull  as  ditch- 
water  and  none  of  us'll  be  sorry  when  the  Boches  get  a  move 
on  again.  No — thanks,  I'm  not  coming  inside!  Responsi- 
ble for  your  safety.     Advise  you  to  tuck  up  and  go  to  by- 

by!" 

The  car  settled  into  its  speed  when  the  ups  and  downs  of 
the  old  town  had  been  left  behind,  and  the  belated  activities 
of  the  Base  Port  had  died  into  a  distant  hum.  It  slackened 
pace  when  the  blaze  of  its  headlights  showed  long  black 
columns  of  laden  motor-lorries  upon  the  wintry  roads  ahead 
of  it — or  horse-drawn  transport  waggons — or  droves  of 
animals,  the  steam  of  whose  breath  and  shaggy  hides  hung 
over  them  in  a  cloud — or  bodies  of  men  in  heav}-  marching 
order — French  and  British  soldiers  wearing  the  new  steel 
headpiece, — shaped  after  the  fashion  of  Mambrino's  helmet, 
like  a  basin  turned  upside  down. 

And  sometimes  there  were  the  halts  at  barriers  or  patrol- 


A  Lover's  Journey  591 

posts  near  towns  or  villages,  where  the  light  of  swung 
lanterns  reddened  the  moustached  faces  of  gendarmes  of 
Chasseurs.  But  usually  when  Patrine  cleared  a  space 
upon  the  misty  window-glass,  the  snow-covered  landscape 
would  be  flying  past  under  the  fitful  moonlight,  with  the 
elongated  shadow  of  the  grey  Staff  car  galloping  beside  it 
like  a  demon  dog. 

Midnight  was  striking  from  an  ancient  church-tower 
when,  passing  the  guarded  barriers  of  a  town  of  old-world 
houses,  and  stopping  in  a  street  running  from  a  Place  bathed 
in  frosty  moonlight,  and  dominated  by  a  vast  cathedral. 
Red  Tab,  with  icicles  on  his 'clipped  moustache  and  fur 
collar,  got  down  and  tapped  upon  the  rimy  glass. 

"Sorry  to  wake  you  up.  Miss  Saxham!"  he  said,  opening 
the  door  as  Patrine  sat  up,  straightened  the  dented  brim  of 
her  hat  and  blinked  denial  of  her  slumberousness,  "but  here's 
the  end  of  your  journey.  This  is  the  Ursuline  Convent  of 
St.  0 — ,  where  we've  arranged  for  you  to  billet  to-night. 
The  Superioress  is  a  frightfully  hospitable  old  lady,  and  my 
uncle — I  mean  Sir  Roland — thought  you'd  be  more  cushy 
with  the  Sisters  than  at  a  common  hotel !" 

"Sir  Roland  is  always  kind.  But  you.  Captain  Smyth- 
Howell?"  She  looked  out  at  her  red-tabbed  escort  with 
compunction  as  he  tugged  at  the  chain  of  a  clanging  bell, 
and  beat  his  mittened  hands  together,  stamping  upon  the 
pavement  to  warm  his  frozen  feet. 

"  Me  ?  Oh,  I'm  pushing  on  to  Divisional  Headquarters — 
twenty-five  miles  from  this  place  and  five  miles  north  of  the 
Belgian  frontier.  You'll  be  sent  on  to  Pophereele  in  the 
morning,  first  thing.  The  French  Chaplain  of  the  Red 
Cross  Hospital  there  is  staying  for  the  night  with  the  Bishop 
at  the  Palace  here.  A  tremendously  agreeable  old  bird  the 
Chaplain — and  a  Monsignore  of  the  Vatican.  I've  met  him 
— and  he  said  he'd  be  delighted  to  look  after  you.  Don't 
get  down — it's  frightfully  slippery!" 


592  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

But  the  tall,  womanly  figure  was  already  standing  beside 
him  on  the  snowy  .cobblestones,  tilting  a  round  white  chin 
towards  the  sky,  and  narrowing  long  eyec — "queer  eyes "  he 
mentally  termed  them — to  see  the  better  through  her  veil. 

"What  glorious  stars!" 

He  liked  the  soft  warmth  of  her  voice,  as  he  answered: 

"  Magnificent,  aren't  they  ?  Look  at  Draco  blazing  away, 
high  over  the  north  transept  of  the  Cathedral.  And  that 
would  be  Aquila- — I  rather  fancy — lowish  on  the  horizon, 
over  that  ruined  tower.  That's  a  bit  of  their  famous 
Abbey " 

"Great  Scott!" 

"Did  anything  startle  you?"  he  asked.     "You  said " 

"I  know  I  said  it,  but  I  didn't  mean  to.  There,  again — " 
She  pointed  as  forked  tongues  of  pale  rainbow-tinted  fire 
leaped  up  from  the  northern  horizon,  throwing  into  moment- 
ary relief  the  Cathedral's  stately  bulk  and  the  huddled 
housetops 

"Those  are  Boche  fireworks!" 

"Fireworks?" 

"  Star-shell,  rockets,  and  so  forth.  They  regularly  treat 
us  to  a  display  before  they  begin  to  pound  us  again.  Where 
are  we  fighting?  Oh,  pretty  busy  north — as  far  as  Ypres 
and  as  far  south  as  La  Bassee.  French  on  our  right — 
French  and  Belgians  on  the  left  of  us.  More  French  hold- 
ing Verdun.  My  hat!  what  gorgeous  fighters!  Men  of 
steel  with  muscles  of  vulcanised  rubber.  And  we  thought 
the  Gaul  an  absinthe-drinking  degenerate.  I  tell  you  we 
wanted  this  War  to  open  our  eyes  for  us.  Perhaps  they  did 
too!     Here's  one  of  the  Sisters  coming  now!" 

Hurrying  felt  slippers  with  rope  soles  shuffled  over  stone 
pavements.  The  key  grated  and  the  bolts  shot  back.  A 
little  Sister  Portress  in  a  close  guimpe  and  flowing  black 
veil,  with  a  blue-checked  apron  tied  over  her  habit,  swung 
back  the  heavy  door,  holding  her  lantern  high. 

Just  Heaven,  upon  how  cold  a  night  Madame  had  arrived 


A  Lover's  Journey  593 

from  England !  Madame  must  be  perished.  But  there  was 
coffee,  and  soup  tres  chaud  not  only  for  Madame  but  for 
M.  rOfficier.  And  also  the  chauffeur.  Madame  la  Supe- 
rieure  would  never  permit  that  either  should  proceed  with- 
out nourishment.  If  M.  I'Officier  and  his  attendant  preferred 
not  to  enter,  the  Sister  would  wait  upon  them  in  the  car. 

And  so  Patrine,  after  taking  leave  of  her  red-tabbed  escort, 
was  led  away  to  the  Mother  Superior,  a  little,  bright-eyed, 
kindly  Religious,  full  of  solicitude  for  Mademoiselle,  who, 
confessing  to  having  emptied  a  Thermos  of  hot  coffee,  and  a 
box  of  sandwiches  during  the  later  stages  of  the  transit,  was 
borne  away  from  the  guest's  refectory  up  and  down  several 
crooked  flights  of  ancient  stairs  to  a  white-washed  apart- 
ment, containing  a  prie-dieu  and  a  big  plaster  Crucifix,  a 
great  walnut  bed  with  faded  Directoire  curtains,  a  minute 
washstand, — a  faint  smell  of  scorched  wood,  emanating  from 
the  perforated  metal  registers  of  a  calorifere,  and  a  bad  little 
coloured  print  of  Lord  Roberts,  within  a  stitched  border  of 
yellow  immortelles  and  faded  laurel-leaves,  that  had  been 
green  and  fresh  six  months  before.   .   .  . 

Patrine  spent  a  white  night  in  the  town  where  the  old 
brave  heart  of  the  great  soldier  had  given  its  last  throb  for 
England.  Not  because  those  thudding  guns  in  the  north 
and  east  kept  her  wakeful — or  because  she  had  never  stayed 
in  a  convent  before. 

She  was  going  to  Sherbrand — her  Flying  Man — who  had 

been  supposed  to  be  dead  and  found  to  be  living, — and  who 

had  written  to  say  that  he  did  not  want  Patrine.     The  letter 

lay  against  her  heart,  and  her  hands  were  folded  tightly  over 

it,  as  she  lay  staring  with  shining  eyes  at  the  drawn  curtains 

flapping  in  the  chill  breeze  stinging  through  the  open  window 

that  had  been  fastened  with  a  nail  when  the  English  guest 

arrived. 
38 


CHAPTER  LXXI 


LIVING  AND  DEAD 


"Pathetic  echo  of  air-tragedy.     Sherbrand,  R.F.C, 

NOT    dead    or    prisoner.        RESCUED    BY    AMERICAN    ReD 

Cross    ambulance.     In   hospital   near   Ypres.     Will 
recover,  but  blind  for  life.  " 

The  clamorous  headlines  had  followed  close  on  a  telephone 
from  Sir  Roland.  Patrine  had  learned  what  it  means  to  cry 
for  joy — an  unforgettable  experience.  She  had  discovered 
that  one  who  kneels  down  to  thank  God  for  a  boon  so  marvel- 
lous, has  no  words  left  to  offer  Him,  nor  even  tears  and  sighs. 

She  had  written  again  and  again  to  Sherbrand,  saying 
only  "Let  me  come  to  you!"  Passionate,  pitiful,  tender 
letters,  answered  after  weeks  of  delay  by  one  page  in  the 
stiff,  neat  handwriting  of  the  American  Red  Cross  Nursing 
Sister  who  acted  as  amanuensis  for  the  blind  man. 

''April,  1915. 

"You  have  said  that  you  wish  to  visit  me  in  my  blind- 
ness. I  thank  you  for  the  expressed  desire,  but  I  cannot 
receive  you  here !  I  have  never  been  the  kind  of  man  who 
bid  for  pity  from  women,  and  the  ties  that  you  broke, 
voluntarily,  six  months  ago,  I  do  not  wish  to  renew.  My 
mother  has  been  here  to  bring  me  some  things" — the 
French  and  Belgian  decorations,  guessed  Patrine — "and 
has  gone  away  again.  She  understands  that  it  is  best  for  me 
to  remain  here,  because,  although  the  War  is  over  as  far  as 
I  am  actively  concerned,  I  can  hear  the  guns  and  breathe 
the  breath  of  battle,  and  know  when  the  'planes  pass  over- 
head, and  follow  them  in  thought.     There  is  little  else  a 

594 


Living  and  Dead  595 

blind  man  can  do,  except  make  toys  or  baskets!     Do  not 

think  me  bitter  or  discontented — I  am  neither — quite  O.K. 

I  wish  people  had  been  told  I  brought  down  the  Zepp., 

that's   all!     With   gratitude   for   your   kind   and   friendly 

remembrance, 

"Yours  most  sincerely, 

"A.  S." 

A  formal  letter,  but  between  the  cold,  stiff  lines  Patrine 
had  read  reproach,  and  love,  and  yearning.  An  unkind 
letter — but  could  she  judge  him  harshly,  her  poor  blind 
eagle,  sitting  in  darkness  never  to  be  lifted,  listening  to  the 
guns,  and  the  battle-song  of  the  Birds  of  War,  drifting  down 
out  of  "his  sky"? 

There  was  Mass  in  the  Convent  chapel  at  seven  next 
morning.  A  military  chaplain  offered  the  Divine  Sacrifice, 
and  the  rush-bottomed  chairs  were  occupied  by  soldiers, 
French  Chasseurs  and  Zouaves,  Senegalese  and  Negroes, 
English  Guards  and  Irish  Fusiliers,  Highlanders  and  a 
German  or  two, — all  patients  from  the  Hospital  under  the 
management  of  the  Ursuline  Sisters — a  big  building  next 
door  to  the  Convent,  that  had  been  a  young  ladies'  boarding 
school  in  the  days  before  the  War. 

The  chapel  was  a  dusky  place.  So  dusky  that  though  the 
red  carnations  and  white  Eucharis  lilies  in  the  Altar  vases 
struck  vivid  notes  of  colour  in  the  light  of  the  Altar  candles, 
the  ruby  spark  of  the  Sanctuary  lamp  and  the  bright  flame 
of  the  Paschal  candle  were  barely  visible  in  the  brooding 
gloom.  You  could  only  tell  the  place  to  be  crowded,  by  the 
deep-toned  chorus  of  masculine  voices  joining  fervently  in 
the  Confiteor  and  Credo.  Pale  green  flashes  momentarily  lit 
up  the  crimson  and  purple  and  tawny  tracery  of  the  round 
east  window,  and  the  distant  thudding  of  the  guns  at  the 
Front  made  an  accompaniment  to  the  sacred  rite. 

The  French  priest  officiating  was  a  lean,  short,  elderly 
personage  with  brilliant  eyes  set  in  a  mask  of  walnut-brown 


596  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

wrinkles  and  a  resonant  voice  that  was  illustrated  by  beauti- 
ful, illuminating  gestures  as  he  preached. 

"Let  none  say  in  your  hearing,  unrebuked,  that  this 
War  is  an  unrelieved  misfortune,"  he  said  to  his  hearers. 
"Recognize  with  me,  my  French  compatriots,  the  Divine 
Mercy  as  extended  particularly  to  France  in  this  fiery  ordeal ! 
Her  towns  and  villages  have  been  destroyed, — her  buildings 
have  been  shattered,  her  sons  in  countless  thousands  slain, 
but  her  national  character  has  been  purified — the  soul  of 
her  people  has  been  raised  from  the  mire.  If  there  is  one 
here  present  among  you — whatever  may  be  his  nationality, 
— who  is  conscious  of  loving  Virtue  better  and  loathing 
Vice  more  intensely,  since  the  beginning  of  this  War — then 
the  War  has  been  a  blessing — to  him — and  not  a  curse? 
Acts  have  been  performed — and  are  repeated  hourly — acts  of 
a  sublime  and  touching  selflessness  and  an  almost  Divine 
tenderness, — not  only  by  men  and  women  who  are  mild  and 
gentle,  but  by  the  roughest  and  the  most  abandoned  of 
either  sex.  The  good  seed  was  sown  in  time  of  peace — ah 
yes,  my  children!  but  it  might  have  perished.  And  now 
Our  Lord,  who  loves  flowers,  has  caused  these  pure  and 
exquisite  blossoms  to  spring  for  Him  from  the  field  of  War.  " 

After  his  tiny  sermon,  delivered  in  French,  and  repeated  in 
English,  he  hesitated  a  moment  before  turning  to  the  Altar 
and  said,  with  emotion  in  his  mobile  face  and  quick  utter- 
ance: 

"I  have  to  ask  a  favour  of  you  this  morning.  It  is  that 
at  the  Commemoration  of  the  Departed  you  will  unite  with 
me  in  a  mental  act  of  prayer.  Prayer  for  the  soul  of  one 
to  whom  the  gift  of  Faith,  not  being  sought,  was  not  given. 
A  soul  that  has  passed  forth  in  darkness  into  the  presence  of 
Him  who  is  the  Light.  " 

He  turned  away  and  began  the  Credo.  As  the  deep  chorus 
of  male  voices  followed,  Patrine  found  herself  agreeing  with 
the  preacher's  discourse. 

"What  was  it,  "  she  asked  herself,  "that  led  me  out  from 


Living  and  Dead  597 

overheated,  crowded  rooms,  oppressive  with  the  scent  of 
flowers  and  perfumes  of  triple  extract — where  the  Tango 
and  the  Turkey  Trot  were  being  danced  by  half -clad, 
painted  women  and  effeminate  young  men — and  set  my 
feet  upon  a  mountain-slope  with  the  free  winds  of  heaven 
blowing  upon  me ':     I  must  answer — It  was  the  War ! ' ' 

As  the  great  waves  of  the  Credo  surged  and  beat  against 
the  old  brown  rafters  she  went  on  thinking : 

"What  has  made  me  quicken  to  the  call  of  Humanit}- — 
awakened  me  to  the  knowledge  of  my  sisterhood  with  my 
fellow-women?  W"hat  has  taught  me  how  to  live  with- 
out dissipation  and  do  without  useless  luxuries?  Again — 
the  War !  And  oh !  what  has  taught  me  the  meaning  of  Love 
in  all  its  fulness,  and  set  within  the  shrine  of  my  heart  this 
great  sacred  sorrow,  and  kindled  in  my  soul  the  pure  altar- 
flame  of  Faith?     The  War,  the  terrible  War!" 

She  prayed  for  Sherbrand  at  the  Commemoration  of  the 
Living!  A  somewhat  incoherent  petition  that  her  Flying 
Man  might  be  helped  to  bear  his  blindness,  and  find  some 
happiness  in  her  unchanged  love.  And  the  thought  of  the 
dead  Agnostic  haunted  her.  Who  was  the  man,  and  what 
had  brought  about  his  ending?  Was  he  a  patient  in  the 
Ursuline  Hospital?" 

A  French,  an  English,  or  a  German  soldier?  By  a  subtle 
change  in  her  mental  purview,  recollections  of  von  Herrnung 
began  to  occupy  her  mind. 

"  I  w^ill  not  think  of  him ! — I  will  not ! "  she  said  to  herself 
desperately.  Then  the  obsession  assumed  an  acute  form. 
All  that  she  most  wished  to  forget  in  her  relations  with  the 
Kaiser's  Flying  Man  was  being  revived  in  her  memory. 
Scene  by  scene,  sentence  by  sentence,  she  was  forced  to  live 
over  the  hated  Past  again. 

She  must  have  risen  from  her  knees  and  left  the  chapel, 
so  unbearable  became  the  torment,  but  that  the  sacring  bell 
rang  its  triples,  the  deep  tones  of  the  Sanctus  answered  from 
the  turret,  and  the  Host  was  lifted  up.     Then  her  tense 


598  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

nerves  relaxed.  The  almost  tangible  presence  of  evil  with- 
drew itself.  She  breathed  more  freely,  and  peace  flowed  in 
balmy  waves  upon  her  stormy  soul.  In  prayer  for  herself 
and  those  who  were  most  dear  to  her,  she  lost  the  sense  of 
the  unseen  hands  plucking  at  her  garments  and  the  sound- 
less voice  whispering  at  her  ear.  And  presently  at  the 
Ipsis  Domine,  when  supplication  is  made  by  priests  and 
people  for  the  departed,  she  prayed  for  the  soul  of  the  Deni- 
er— that  the  Divine  Mercy  might  reach  and  enfold  him,  and 
lead  him  yet  into  the  Way  of  Peace. 

''Christ  is  risen  who  created  all  things,  and  who  hath  had 
pity  upon  mankind.  .  .  .  Purchased  people,  declare  His 
virtues,  alleluia  !  Who  hath  called  you  out  of  darkness  into 
His  admirable  light. " 

To  Patrine  the  Call  had  come. 

It  was  Easter  Week  and  there  were  many  communicants. 
The  nuns  and  the  French  and  English  Red  Cross  nurses 
helped  the  lame  to  reach  the  Altar-rails  and  guided  the 
blind.  When  a  tall,  blond  young  English  Officer  with  band- 
aged eyes  and  an  empty  sleeve  was  led  up  to  his  Master's 
Table,  Patrine  was  grateful  that  the  chapel  was  so  dusk. 

She  was  to  meet  the  Chaplain  of  the  Pophereele  Station- 
ary Hospital  after  Mass,  the  Mother  Superioress  had  said» 
Thus,  guided  by  an  Ursuline  Sister,  she  passed  from  the 
chapel  into  a  long,  whitewashed  cloister  looking  on  the 
garden,  its  open  arches  facing  the  doors  of  what  had  been 
class-rooms,  and  now  were  wards.  Another  Ursuline,  the 
Sister  Superintendent  of  the  Hospital,  with  a  young,  gentle 
face  framed  in  her  close  white  guimpe  and  flowing  black 
veil,  sat  writing  in  a  big  book  at  a  plain  deal  table.  Near 
her  were  some  shelves  with  rows  of  bottles  and  a  chest  of 
drawers  with  measuring-glasses  upon  it,  and  a  pestle  and 
mortar  and  druggists'  scales.  Above  the  table  a  black 
wooden  Crucifix  hung  against  the  whitewashed  wall. 

"This  is  Sceur  Catherine,  who  keeps  the  Hospital  ac- 
counts and  dispenses  the  medicines,  and  posts  the  register 


Living  and  Dead  599 

in  which  we  set  down  the  names  of  all  the  wounded  received 
and  discharged.  Take  care,  Mademoiselle!  That  paint  is 
new  and  comes  off!"  cried  the  chaperoning  Sister,  snatching 
aside  the  skirt  of  Patrine's  long  blue  V.A.D.  coat. 

She  had  brushed,  in  passing,  against  a  wooden  tablet 
that  leaned  against  the  wall  near  the  door  through  which 
she  had  come.  A  big  square  of  black-painted  deal  sur- 
mounted by  a  gabled  and  eaved  Cross  of  German  pattern, 
and  bearing  an  inscription  in  white  Gothic  lettering : 

"hier  ruht  im  gott 
ein  deutscher  fliegende  offizier.  " 

"That  is  for  the  grave  of  the  German  officer  'who  died 
yesterday.  One  of  the  Bavarian  soldiers  is  painting  it.  He 
has  not  finished — he  has  only  gone  away  for  a  moment  to 
get  some  more  ceruse  from  Mother  Madeleine." 

Sister  Catherine  offered  the  explanation.  She  added,  as 
the  tall  English  girl  glanced  at  something  that  lay  on  the 
deal  table  beside  the  register: 

"That  is  his  flying-cap,  poor  man!  and  the  belt  that 
shows  his  rang  militaire.  They  will  be  placed  upon  the  pall 
when  they  carry  him  to  the  cemetery.  But  pardon!  One 
should  have  observed  before  that  Mademoiselle  was  suffer- 
ing! What!  Mademoiselle  is  not  ill,  not  even  a  little 
fatigued?  Then  what  Mademoiselle  needs  is  a  petit  dejeu- 
ner. " 

And  Patrine  was  whisked  away  to  the  guest's  refectory 
to  be  refreshed  with  pistolets  and  coffee.  Monseigneur 
would  follow  a  little  later.  Madame  la  Sup^rieure  had 
arranged  for  Monseigneur  to  take  dejeuner  with  M.  I'Au- 
monier.  Later,  Monseigneur  hoped  for  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  the  English  Mademoiselle. 

Mademoiselle's  tall  rounded  figure,  ushered  by  the  little 
active  Ursuline  Sister,  had  barel}-  passed  through  the  glazed 
swing-doors  leading  from  the  cloister  to  the  Convent,  when 


6oo  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  short,  spare,  elderly  priest  who  had  celebrated  Mass 
entered  from  the  chapel,  followed  by  the  Convent  Aumon- 
ier,  who  had  served  him  at  the  altar.  Even  as  the  nun 
rose  from  her  table,  the  vividly  clear  eyes  of  Monseigneur,  set 
in  the  mask  of  dry  walnut -brown  wrinkles,  dropped  on  the 
painted  head-board  propped  against  the  wall. 

"That  is  for  him?" 

The  supple  right  hand  of  Monseigneur  waved  towards 
the  chapel,  then  extended  itself  to  the  Sister,  who  curtsied 
and  kissed  his  amethyst  ring. 

"For  him,  Monseigneur,"  answered  the  Aumonier,  to 
whom  the  question  had  been  addressed. 

"Dieu  veuille  avoir  son  dmeT' 

The  left  sleeve  of  Monseigneur's  decidedly  rusty  serge 
soutane  bore  the  well-known  brassard.  Its  scarlet  and  white 
peeped  between  the  folds  of  his  heavy  black  mantle  as  he 
made  the  Sign  of  the  Cross. 

"His  name  is  missing  from  the  inscription,"  he  com- 
mented, producing  a  battered  silver  snuff-box  and  helping 
himself  to  a  generous  pinch.     "Why,  might  one  demand?" 

"The  initials  will  be  painted  in  presently,  Monseigneur. 
There  will  be  no  name — by  desire  of  the  deceased!" 

"He  preferred  anonymity?"  The  amethyst  ring  of 
Monseigneur's  prelacy  flashed  violet  as  he  dusted  the 
brown  powder  from  his  upper-lip  with  a  blue  checked 
handkerchief.  "The  Pere  Aumonier  tells  me,"  his  start- 
lingly  clear  eyes  were  on  the  Sister,  "that  terrible  as  were 
his  injuries,  he  might  have  recovered — that  his  death 
occurred  suddenly  and  unexpectedly.  " 

"But  yes,  Monseigneur,  he  might  have  recovered!" 
The  fair  face  framed  in  the  narrow  guimpe  was  shadowed 
and  troubled.  "The  coup  d'obiis  had  spared  the  brain, 
arteries,  and  vertebra.  His  sight  was  uninjured — M.  le 
Commandant  and  his  colleagues  had  achieved  wonders  in 
the  partial  restoration  of  the  visage.  Speech  was  difficult 
— but  we  could  understand  him — unless  he  was  sullen  and 


Living  and  Dead  6oi 

would  only  speak  German  to  us.  But  at  those  times  a 
Bavarian  soldier  interpreted — he  who  has  painted  the  head- 
board for  the  grave. " 

"He — the  German  officer — was  grateful  to  those  who 
nursed  him?"  inquired  Monseigneur  of  the  Aumonier. 

The  stout  little  Chaplain  visibly  hesitated.  It  was  the 
Sister  who  answered  in  her  clear  and  gentle  voice : 

"Alas!  no,  Monseigneur!  He  was  arrogant,  even  brutal. 
But  then — he  suffered  so  terribly,  in  mind  as  in  body — one 
could  not  be  angry  at  anything  he  said.  He  could  not 
resign  himself  to  his  disfigured  condition.  It  was  intoler- 
able, he  would  cry,  that  he  should  now  be  an  object  of 
horror  to  women — women  who  had  worshipped  him  almost 
as  a  god!" 

"Chut — chut!  Eh — well!  One  presumes  he  meant  a 
certain  type  of  women,"  observed  Monseigneur. 

"Possibly  so,  Monseigneur."  The  simplicity  of  the  fair 
face  in  the  narrow  guimpe  was  touching.  "For  when  we 
assured  him  that  we  did  not  regard  him  with  horror  he 
would  say  to  us:  'That  makes  nothing!  I  speak  of  women. 
You  are  only  nuns. 

"But  nuns  are  women,"  objected  Monseigneur. 

"Monseigneur,  he  said  not.  When  his  condition  seemed 
to  him  most  miserable  he  found  relief  in  saying  things — 
abusive — outrageous — about  nuns.  We  didn't  mind.  We 
pitied  him — poor  Number  Twenty!  But  the  French  and 
English  officers  in  the  same  ward  resented  this.  They 
entreated  us  to  remove  him  to  a  separate  room.  This  we 
did,  and  at  his  request  the  Bavarian  was  placed  in  the  same 
apartment — he  has  been  an  officer's  servant — and  is  active 
and  useful,  even  though  he  has  lost  a  leg.  Thus  things  went 
better.  Poor  Twenty  seemed  more  contented.  He  even 
looked  fonA'ard  to  leaving  the  Hospital!" 

"And  then?  A  change? — a  relapse?"  suggested  Mon- 
seigneur. 

"A   change.     He  became  more  gloomy — more  violent 


6o2  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

after  a  letter  arrived  for  him  from  England  at  the  Jour  des 
morts.  Since  two  days  comes  another  letter.  We  heard 
him  raving  of  perfidy,  the  folly  of  his  agents — the  injustice 
of  his  Emperor — the  revenge  upon  the  Englishwoman  that 
he  would  never  have  now!  .  .  .  Then  all  was  quiet.  To- 
wards morning  the  Bavarian  came  out  of  the  room  and  called 
an  orderly.  The  Herr  Hauptmann  was  sleeping,  he  said,  in 
such  a  queer  way.  .  .  .  From  that  unnatural  stupor  he 
never  awakened.  All  his  letters  and  papers  were  torn  up 
and  scattered  in  fragments.  There  was  a  little  cardboard 
box  on  the  night-table  and  a  pencil  billet  for  me.  I  am  to 
send  a  ring  he  always  wore  to  the  address  of  a  noble  young 
lady  at  Berlin.  She  was  his  fiancee,  I  believe,  Mon- 
seigneur.  He  thanks  me  for  the  little  I  have  been  able 
to  do  for  him! — he  begs  the  Sisters  to  pardon  his  rudeness. 
.  .  .  He  wishes  no  name  upon  his  grave — but  to  be  for- 
gotten. .  .  .  Poor  broken  body — poor  rebellious  heart 
— poor  stubborn,  desperate  soul!" 

"You  think,  then,  that — he  killed  himself?"  asked  Mon- 
seigneur  with  directness. 

"I  dare  not  think!"  She  was  searching  m  her  table 
drawer  with  tears  dropping  on  her  hands.  "I  can  only 
pray  that  the  autopsy  of  the  surgeon  will  not  reveal  that  the 
death  was  not  natural.  Look,  Monseigneurl — this  is  his 
ring.  A  big  black-and-white  pearl.  And  under  the  pearl, 
which  lifts  up — is  a  little  box  for  something.  ...  A  relic 
perhaps— or  a  portrait,  or  a  lock  of  a  friend's  hair.  " 

"It  might  serve  as  a  reliquary — at  need,  my  child, "  said 
Monseigneur,  examining  the  platinum  setting.  He  gave 
one  swift  glance  at  the  unsuspicious  Aumonier  and  another 
at  the  innocent  nun.  He  peered  again  narrowly  at  the 
empty  hiding-place,  to  the  shallow  sides  of  which  a  few 
atoms  of  glittering  grey  dust  were  adhering.  He  lifted 
the  ring  to  his  nose  and  sniffed,  tapped  the  little  box  on  his 
thumb-nail,  and  touched  his  tongue  to  one  of  the  glittering 
grey  specks.     Then  he  hastily  spat  in  his  handkerchief, 


Livino:  and  Dead  603 


'& 


and  thunder-clouds  sat  on  the  furrowed  forehead  over  the 
great  hooked  beak. 

"Listen!" 

The  nun  started  and  grew  paler  still.  She  hurried  to  the 
glazed  doors  opening  on  the  garden  and  threw  them  wide 
apart.  As  the  chill  outer  air  rushed  in,  sporting  with  the 
scant  white  locks  of  M.  TAumonier,  fluttering  the  purple 
lappets  at  the  throat  of  Monseigneur,  and  tugging  as  with 
invisible  hands  at  the  Sister's  thin  black  veil,  approaching 
footsteps  crunched  over  the  sloppy  gravel  of  the  cloister 
walk. 

The  small  stout  figure  of  the  Sister-Keeper  of  the  mortu- 
ary headed  the  small,  solemn  procession.  She  held  up  her 
habit  out  of  the  slush,  and  carried  as  well  as  a  mammoth 
iron  doorkey,  a  small  bunch  of  spring  flowers. 

A  stretcher-squad  of  the  French  Red  Cross  followed  the 
Sister  of  the  mortuary.  In  life  the  man  they  bore  must 
have  been  a  magnificent  specimen  of  humanity.  In  death 
the  length  of  his  rigid  form  appeared  phenomenal.  The 
black  velvet  pall,  over  which  had  been  draped  the  black-red- 
white  German  War  Ensign,  was  far  too  short  to  cover  the 
stiff  blanket-swathed  feet.  That  they  projected  beyond 
the  stretcher-end  with  an  effect  of  arrogance  and  obstinacy, 
was  the  thought  that  occurred  to  one  of  the  three  people 
gathered  in  a  little  group  upon  the  threshold  of  the  cloister- 
doors. 

"Monseigneur.  .  .  .  My  Father!  ..."  Sister  Cath- 
erine was  speaking  in  suppressed  but  eager  accents.  "  It  is 
Number  Twenty.  They  are  taking  him  to  the  mortuary. 
The  Sister-Keeper  promised  to  carry  flowers  as  a  sign  that 
all  was  well.  You  understand,  do  ^'ou  not?  The  surgeons 
have  decided — thanks  be  to  God ! — that  the  poor  man  did 
not  poison  himself!" 

She  dropped  to  her  knees  and  began  to  say  a  decade  of 
her  Rosary,  the  wooden  beads  running  between  her  fingers 


6o4  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

like  brown  water  as  she  prayed.  The  priests  made  the  Sign 
of  the  Cross  silently  as  the  body  was  borne  past.  When  the 
last  feather  of  the  Black  Eagle  had  vanished,  and  the 
crunching  of  footsteps  on  sloppy  gravel  had  thinned  away 
in  distance,  the  nun  rose. 

"You  feel  happier  now,  my  sister,  do  you  not?"  Mon- 
seigneur  asked  kindly. 

"  Much  happier,  Monseigneur,  "  she  said,  "for  now  I  may 
pray  for  him!" 

Monseigneur,  who  had  retained  the  ring,  shut  the  hiding- 
place  with  a  decided  click,  snapped  into  its  slot  the  end  of 
the  bar  tha.  '-vld  the  m,af:'"ie  pearl  in  place,  and  said  as  he 
restored  the  bauble  to  the  nun: 

"Who  knows  but  that  some  ray  of  Divine  Grace  may  yet 
shine  upon  that  darkened  soul !  Do  as  the  owner  begged  of 
you,  and  pray  for  him  by  all  means ! " 

"That  I  will!"  she  said  fervently.  "And  you  also,  will 
you  not  pray  for  him?  the  poor,  proud  Pagan  who  believed 
no  resurrection  possible— unless  one  were  to  exist  again  as 
a  vapour  or  a  tree.  Alas!  I  fear  I  have  sinned  much  in 
yielding  to  the  feeling  he  inspired  in  me!" 

She  added,  meeting  the  keen  glance  of  Monseigneur's 
vivid  eyes: 

"The  feeling  of  repugnance.  Of  horror,  Monseigneur! 
Here  comes  the  Bavarian  to  finish  the  inscription.  Well, 
my  good  Kiihler,  you  have  got  some  more  ceruse?" 

The  glass-doors  had  been  darkened  by  the  shape  of  a  one- 
legged  man  on  crutches,  a  black-haired,  swarthy  fellow 
dressed  in  the  maroon  flannel  uniform  distinctive  of  the 
Hospital.  A  little  pot  with  a  brush  in  it  dangled  from  one 
of  his  big  fingers.  He  glanced  up  under  his  heavy  brows, 
with  a  muttered  word  as  he  passed  the  Sister,  and  returned 
the  greeting  of  Monseigneur  with  a  clumsy  attempt  at  a 
alute. 

'"'(,u    are   better?     You  are  getting  on?"  said  Mon- 
.;r  to  him  in  German. 


Living  and  Dead  605 

"Better,  mein  Vater,  and  getting  on." 

"That  is  well !  And  you  have  only  a  little  bit  to  do,  and 
then  your  work  is  done?" 

"Done,  mein  Vater l''     echoed  the  one-legged  man. 

He  went  to  the  head-board  where  it  was  near  the  door 
leading  to  the  chapel,  leaned  his  crutches  against  the  wall, 
and  began  cautiously  and  painfully  to  let  himself  down. 
Monseigneur  and  the  Aumonier  hurried  to  his  assistance, 
saw  him  safely  squatted  upon  his  folded  sack,  took  leave, of 
the  Sister,  who  knelt  to  receive  the  blessing  of  the  hand  that 
wore  the  amethyst  ring, — and  vanished  through  the  farther 
door  at  the  urgent  summons  of  a  bell. 

The  Sister  turned  again  to  her  big  ledger.  A  list  of 
articles  appertaining  to  the  deceased  would  have  to  be 
checked  and  verified.  Two  pairs  of  binoculars — surely  the 
one  bearing  the  name  and  address  of  an  officer  in  a  British 
Guards  regiment  ought  to  be  sent  to  the  Allies'  Headquarters 
at  St.  0 — .  Two  purses,  one  full  of  English  sovereigns,  a 
stout  roll  of  French  bank-notes  in  a  pigskin  case,  and  so 
forth.  When  next  she  looked  round,  the  Bavarian  was 
wiping  his  brushes.     The  finished  inscription  now  stood: 

"lIIER    RUHT    IM    GOTT 
EIN  DEUTSCHER  FLIEGENDE  OFFIZIER 
T.    V.    H. 
30  YAIIRE  ALT.  " 

"You  are  sorry  for  him,  are  you  not,  my  good  Kiihler?" 
the  nun  asked  mildly  as  the  Bavarian  scrambled  to  his 
solitary  foot,  and  stood  supporting  himself  against  the  wall. 

"Sorry,  my  Sister?"  He  spoke  in  thick  Teutonic  French, 
and  looked  at  her  under  his  lowering  black  brows  as  he 
reached  his  crutches  out  of  the  corner  and  tucked  them 
under  his  arms.  "Why  should  I  be  sorry?  He's  dead — 
and  so  an  end  of  him.  Total  kaput  for  another  officer!" 
He  saluted  the  Sister  and  stimiped  out. 


CHAPTER  LXXII 


LOVE   THAT  HAS  WINGS 


Under  a  blue  sky — the  forget-me-not  blue  of  April — tiny 
blizzards — ^mere  dust  of  snow — alternated  with  slashes  of 
sleet.  The  road  running  east  from  Pophereele  was  villain- 
ous ;  bad  pave  in  the  centre,  and  on  either  side  morasses  of 
mud  from  which  rose  at  irregular  intervals,  scraggy  poplars 
hacked  by  shell-fire  and  barked  by  the  impact  of  innumer- 
able iron-shod  wheels 

An  almost  continuous  line  of  transports  bumped  over  the 
abominable  pave.  Staff  cars  with  British  Brass  Hats  and 
red  French  kepis  gold-braided,  motor-guns  and  caissons, 
motor-lorries,  motor-ambulances,  motor-cyclists,  ped- 
estrians— chiefly  Belgian  peasants  in  tall  peaked  caps 
and  long  blue  blouses,  caked  to  the  knees  in  sticky  mire. 
Odd  detachments  of  French  Artillery,  a  squadron  of 
Chasseurs  in  the  new  uniform  of  sallow  blue — a  half -battal- 
ion of  magnificent,  singing  Canadians,  loaded  on  the  dark 
green  motor-buses  that  used  to  run  from  Holloway  to 
Westminster  Bridge. 

Where  French  police  were  posted  at  cross-roads  and  a 
working-party  of  British  Engineers  were  mending  the  high- 
way— filling  up  shell-pits,  and  the  cunningly-concealed 
emplacements  where  a  battery  of  French  75 's  had  been  in 
action  a  few  months  before,  and  the  shrapnel-riddled  houses 
of  a  small  village  yet  harboured  a  few  wizened  Flemish 
peasants,  was  the  point  whence  you  first  caught  sight  of  the 
towers  of  the  ancient  capital  of  Western  Flanders,  rising 
above  a  bank  of  grey  mist,  sucked  from  the  thawing  earth 
by  the  warmth  of  the  April  sun. 

An  historic  city  of  gabled  houses,  a  city  on  a  river  long 

606 


Love  That  Has  Wings  607 

lost  and  vaulted  over — a  city  as  famous  through  its  indus- 
tries of  cloth-weaving,  and  the  exquisite  manufacture  of  cob- 
webby lace  of  Valenciennes,  as  precious  to  students  of  Art 
and  Literature  by  reason  of  its  stirring  history,  and  the 
wonders  it  enshrined.  A  matchless  city,  the  glory  of 
Flandre  Occident,  with  its  Cloth  Hall  of  the  marvellous 
Early  Gothic  facades,  its  Renaissance  Nieuwerk  and  ancient 
Stedehuus,  its  glorious  cathedral  on  the  north  opposite 
the  Halles,  with  the  unfinished  tower  by  Marten  Unten- 
hove,  and  the  triumphal  arch  in  the  West  porch  by  Urban 
Taillebert. 

Since  October,  19 14,  when  a  British  Brigade  with  two 
battalions  of  another  B.B.,  had  successfully  withstood  the 
desperate  attacks  of  the  flower  of  the  Prussian  Imperial 
Guard,  the  beautiful  old  city  had  suffered  bombardment,, 
furious,  purposeful,  desultory,  or  intermittent,  from  the 
enemy's  11.2-in.  long  range  Krupps.  That  First  Battle — 
fought  upon  a  line  extending  from  a  few  miles  north-east  of 
the  city — had  been  succeeded  after  the  partial  lull  of  winter, 
by  a  second,  a  stubborn  and  sanguinary  renewal  of  the 
struggle,  rendered  hideous  by  the  use  of  the  Boche's  trump- 
card,  flaming  oil-jets  and  asphyxiating  gas. 

Now  the  pride  of  Flandre  Occident  stood  as  it  stands 
to-day,  like  the  heart  of  a  martyr  calcined  but  unconsumed 
in  the  cold  ashes  of  the  pyre.  Its  sad  and  stately  dignity 
was  marvellously  beautiful,  under  the  blue  April  sky,  with 
its  lashes  of  wintry  sleet.  Its  gardens  were  dressed  in  green 
spring  livery,  the  grass  was  peeping  between  the  cobble- 
stones, the  scorched  and  broken  chestnut-trees  that  had 
shaded  the  promenades  on  the  site  of  its  ancient  ramparts 
were  thrusting  out  their  pinky-brown  fingcr-like  buds. 
And  above  the  shell-pitted  waste  of  uncut  brass  now  repre- 
senting the  Plainc  d' Amour, — where  the  reviews  used  to 
take  place  and  the  Kermesses,  and  athletic  Club  competi- 
tions— where  the  aerodrome  is  cut  by  the  line  of  the  canal 
that  receives  the  waters  of  the  subterranean  river — a  lark 


6o8  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

was  singing  joyfully  as  it  climbed  its  airy  spiral,  and  a  blind 
man  was  standing  by  the  twisted  ruins  of  a  British  aeroplane 
drinking  in  the  music  that  rained  from  the  sky. 

In  the  battered  Rue  d'Elverdinghe,  behind  a  block  of  the 
ruined  prison,  the  car  that  had  brought  Sherbrand  waited. 
A  grey  car  with  the  Red  Cross  and  a  miniature  replica  of 
Old  Glory  on  the  bonnet.  The  Belgian  chauffeur  smoked 
cigarettes  and  read  the  Independence  Beige  industriously; 
the  American  V.A.D.  orderly  smoked  also,  surveying  the 
wreckage  at  the  end  of  the  wide  thoroughfare,  between 
whose  gaunt  and  roofless  walls  was  revealed  a  vista  of  the 
Grand  Place, — where  the  west  fagade  of  the  Cathedral 
reared,  a  calcined  skeleton  above  the  ruined  Halles,— and 
the  Belfry  whose  massiveness  defied  the  genii  of  destruction 
for  a  few  weeks  to  come.  Yet  he  kept  his  eye  on  his  charge, 
solicitously.  No  creature  is  so  utterly  unaided  by  the 
senses,  so  pathetically  defenceless  as  a  recently  blind 
man. 

Drives  were  part  of  the  treatment  prescribed  for  Sher- 
brand by  the  American  surgeon  of  the  Hospital  at  Pophereele. 
The  chauffeur  and  the  attendant  were  instructed  to  himiour 
him,  and  his  humour  craved  solitude  and  the  sense  of  space. 
This  excursion  to  the  plain  lying  north-west  of  the  stricken 
city  where  Death  and  Ruin  were  Burgomaster  and  Bishop 
was  not  the  first  by  several.  The  few  remaining  inhabitants 
— the  pale  women  who  made  lace  in  the  shelter  of  broken 
doorways,  the  feeble  old  folks  from  the  almshouses,  who 
peered  from  their  cellar-refuges  at  the  crunch  and  grind  of 
armoured  wheels  upon  the  bricks  and  timbers  heaped  upon 
the  littered  thoroughfares — ^lully  wondered  at  these  visits 
of  the  blind  Englishman. 

They  had  seen  many  strange  things  of  late,  the  red-eyed, 
meagre,  ague-bitten  old  people,  since  that  day  in  early 
October  when  fifteen  thousand  Kaisermen,  chanting  the 
German  War  Song,  had  defiled  for  six  mortal  hours  through 
the  streets  of  their  ancient  town. 


Love  That  Has  Wings  609 

"There  are  a  great  many  of  you  gentlemen,"  some  of  the 
old  folks  had  ventured  to  say. 

"That  may  be  so,"  they  had  been  told,  "but  we  have 
millions  waiting  to  follow.  We  are  sure  to  win;  the  French 
are  cowards,  and  the  English  stupid  fools.  As  for  you — 
you  are  now  all  Belgo-Germans,  our  Kaiser  has  said  so! 
When  we  leave  here  we  are  going  to  Calais,  Paris  next,  and 
then  London — it's  nothing  at  all  to  get  to  London  in  our 
magnificent  Zeppelins ! ' ' 

Then  suddenly  the  Germans  had  gone  away — and  with 
them  trains  of  waggons  crammed  with  booty.  A  week 
later,  amidst  the  vivas  of  the  people,  twenty-one  thousand 
British  had  poured  into  the  town.  They  had  rolled  down 
the  streets  like  a  tawny  river  singing  lustily: 

"  Here  we  are — here  we  are — here  we  are  again! 
Hallo!     Hallo!     Hallo!     Hallo!  " 

And  the  crowd  had  been  quick  to  catch  up  the  chorus, 
responding ; 

"  Eeeiveea — eeweea — eeweea — eggain  I 
Alio!     Alio!     Alio!     ALLO!" 

And  the  British  Headquarters  had  established  itself  in 
its  spider-web  of  Intelligence  at  the  house  of  the  Burgo- 
master, and  the  very  next  day  a  Boche  aviator  had  tried  to 
drop  a  bomb  on  it,  and  had  been  winged  by  a  clever  shot 
from  an  anti-aircraft  gun,  and  brought  crashing  down  on 
the  Plaine  d'Amour.  And  there  had  been  rejoicings  on  the 
part  of  the  young  people  who  were  thoughtless.  But  the 
wise  old  folks  had  known  quite  well  that  many  more  Taubes 
would  come. 

What  an  autvmin  it  had  been,  dear  Lord!  thought  the 
trembling  old  people.  The  first  Sunday  in  August,  with  its 
decorations,  processions,  h}Tiins,  and  litanies,  all  in  honour 
of  Our  Lady  of  Thuyn,  had  been  turned  into  a  demonstra- 
tion of  penitents.  The  Kermesse  had  been  prohibited  with 
39 


6io  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

the  other  festivities.  No  use  baking  honey-cakes  and  marzi- 
pan. Nobody  would  have  bought  them.  The  Yprais  were 
too  busy  listening  to  the  distant  firing  of  terribly  great  guns. 
All  the  window-panes  rattled  and  shivered,  and  the  earth 
vibrated  without  ceasing.  Each  morning  brought  dreadful 
news,  contradicted  every  afternoon,  and  confirmed  at  night. 
Towns  bombarded,  townsmen  shot,  hung,  or  burned,  child- 
ren and  women — even  nuns — violated  and  murdered. 
Villages  wiped  out — these  were  the  stories  that  found  their 
way  into  the  deafest  ears.  Crowds  of  refugees  evacuated 
from  these  towns  and  villages  presently  began  to  throng  in. 
Soon  the  streets  were  full  from  wall  to  wall.  Spies  moved 
everywhere,  and  no  lights  dared  be  shown  at  night-time. 
Bread  grew  scarce,  the  dreadful  sound  of  the  guns  drew 
nearer.  Wounded,  Allies  and  Germans  also,  were  brought 
in,  in  thousands,  by  the  ambulance-cars.  The  hospitals  and 
hotels  and  convents  were  full — all  the  schools— and  many  of 
the  private  houses.  Terrible  rumours  gained  ground  of  a 
great  battle  about  to  be  fought  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
town. 

Peering  from  garret-windows  by  day  or  night,  one  could 
see  great  banks  of  black  smoke  towering  on  the  north,  east, 
and  west  horizons,  pierced  by  broad  licking  tongues  of 
cherry-coloured  flame.  Taubes  and  Allied  aircraft  fought 
battles  in  the  heavens.  Bombs  were  dropped  upon  public 
buildings.  Death  had  begun  to  be  common  in  the  streets 
when  the  first  Krupp  shells  fell  and  exploded  in  the  moat 
behind  the  Abbey  Church  of  St.  Jacques.  Ten  minutes 
later — upon  the  doomed  city  fell  the  direst  fury  of  the  Ger- 
man hate. 

It  had  been  as  though  hell  had  opened,  as  under  that 
hail  of  iron  and  fire  the  troops  and  transports  of  the  Allies, 
and  the  long  processions  of  townspeople  afoot  artd  in  carts 
and  carriages  had  rolled  out  of  the  town.  Even  the  dogs 
had  left,  following  their  owners.  Like  the  cats — who  clung 
to  their  familiar  surroundings,  and  had  to  be  removed  by 


Love  That  Has  Wings  6ii 

force,  if  they  were  to  be  taken — the  old  folks  resisted  the 
sturdy  hands  that  tugged  at  them.  "Leave  us!  .  .  ." 
they  quavered.  "  We  are  so  old !  .  .  .  We  can  never  bear 
the  journey !  .  .  .  We  should  only  die  upon  the  roads  if  we 
were  to  go!" 

Many  did  go,  and  many  died,  and  of  those  who  stayed 
behind  them,  Steel,  Iron,  and  Fire  claimed  a  heavy  toll. 
But  in  the  Northern  quarter,  some  yet  dwelt  in  cellar-base- 
ments, feeding  on  mouldy  flour,  and  frozen  potatoes.  Sleep- 
ing on  sacks  of  straw,  covered  with  rugs  or  blankets,  warming 
their  lean,  shivery  bodies  at  braziers,  choking  behind 
masks  taken  from  slain  men  through  deadly  gas-attacks, — 
creeping  up  between  bombardments  for  a  breath  of  purer 
air.  Venturing  forth  to  kneel  upon  the  littered  pavements 
of  roofless  churches,  and  pray  to  Our  Lord  before  His  vacant 
tabernacles  and  shattered  Crucifixes — for  an  end  to  the 
dreadful  War. 

And  no  answer  came,  it  seemed,  for  all  their  praying. 
They  had  grown  used  to  the  dampness  underground.  Their 
eyes  were  now  accustomed  to  the  gloom,  as  their  ears  to  the 
stunning  crashes  of  the  bombardments^ — and  the  perpetual 
whirr  and  buzz  and  whine  of  the  aircraft  in  the  sky.  So 
natural  had  become  to  them  the  abomination  of  desolation 
that  they  actually  resented  the  occasional  visits  of  the  Red 
Cross  car  from  Pophereele. 

"Behold  him  again,"  they  grumbled,  "the  tall,  blind 
Englisliman.  What  docs  he  seek  here?  Hardly  to  view 
our  ruins  that  he  has  no  eyes  to  see!  And  now  in  another 
big  grey  car  arrive  a  French  priest  and  a  woman,  asking, 
wherever  they  meet  a  soul  to  ask,  if  the  blind  Englishman 
is  here  ?  The  priest  is  a  Monseigneur — Old  Ottilie  swears 
to  the  ring  and  the  purple  collar.  The  woman  is  English, 
it  appears.     Perhaps  she  is  the  blind  man's  wife r " 

The  car  moved  on  where  the  roadway  was  not  broken  by 
trenches,  crawling  painfully  over  litter  and  wreck.  In  the 
shadow  of  the  ruined  prison,  while  yet  the  sun  was  high, 


6i2  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

they  halted.  Their  chauffeur  nodded  to  his  Belgian  com- 
patriot, the  Red  Cross  orderly,  interrogated  by  Monseigneur, 
pointed  to  the  tall  brown  figure  standing  on  the  grass  beside 
the  twisted  wreckage  of  a  British  aeroplane. 

"I  will  wait  here  for  you.  Mademoiselle,"  said  Mon- 
seigneur, getting  out  and  assisting  his  fellow-traveller.  She 
was  very  tall  and  of  supple  figure,  and  wore  a  long  blue  coat 
with  the  Red  Cross  shield-badge,  and  a  felt  hat  banded  with 
the  V.A.D.  ribbon,  pulled  down  over  luxuriant  masses  of 
hair — hair  that  had  been  cloudy-black  as  storm-wrack  and 
had  been  bleached  to  the  hue  of  wintry  beech-leaves,  and 
now  had  darkened  to  the  brown  of  peat-earth,  deepening  in 
colour  every  day. 

She  gave  Monseigneur  her  hand,  thanking  him,  and 
suddenly  he  thought  her  beautiful,  although  the  tall  young 
woman  had  not  previously  appealed  to  the  sense  of  beauty 
in  Monseigneur.  Her  long  eyes  under  their  widely  arching 
brows  were  stars,  her  mouth  was  smiling.  When  she 
moved  away  over  the  snow-patched  grass,  she  seemed 
to  tread  on  air.   .   .   . 

Throughout  the  drive  Patrine  had  been  torn  with  horrible 
misgivings.  "What  shall  I  say  or  do, "  she  had  wondered- 
"How  shall  I  bear  it  if  the  look  upon  his  face  should  tell 
me,  when  Alan  first  hears  my  voice — that  I  was  wrong  to 
come? "  But  the  chilly  fit  had  passed  with  the  first  glimpse 
of  Sherbrand.  The  rich,  warm  flood  rising  in  her  veins  had 
swept  her  doubts  away. 

Here  on  this  shell-pitted  expanse  of  turf  you  felt  the  War- 
pulse  beating.  French  75 's  were  putting  over  a  furious 
barrage  from  the  south.  North  of  the  City  of  the  Salient 
the  British  guns  were  slogging,  and  through  the  chain-fire 
of  the  enemy's  77  mm.'s,  his  11.2-in.  howitzers  bellowed  at 
short  intervals,  and  sent  in  600-pound  shells. 

The  smoke  of  a  train  rose  north-west  in  the  direction  of 
Thourout  Junction.     That  the  train  was  a  German  train. 


Love  That  Has  Wings  613 

carrying  troops  and  guns  and  munitions  for  War  purposes, 
did  not  at  once  occur  to  Patrine.  All  was  well.  Not  a 
doubt  remained.  She  was  near  her  Flying  Man  again  after 
months  of  separation.  Here  at  last  was  food  for  her  hungry 
eyes  and  drink  for  her  thirsting  soul. 

"He  has  grown  thin,  poor  dear ! "  she  thought,  seeing  how 
the  war-stained  khaki  hung  in  folds  on  his  tall  figure.  The 
broad  shoulders  stooped.  The  chest  had  sunken,  and  he 
leaned  upon  a  heavy  walking-stick.  The  beloved  face  was 
turned  away,  the  line  of  the  cheek  was  careworn.  She 
choked  upon  a  sob  and  stopped  short,  fighting  her  emotion 
down. 

The  song  of  the  soaring  lark  broke  off.  The  bird  dived 
to  earth  and  hid  itself  amongst  the  frosty  grasses  as  the 
snoring  whirr  of  aircraft  came  out  of  the  distance  high  in 
the  sky  to  the  west.  Now  the  shape  of  a  big  biplane 
gleamed  pinky- white  as  a  seagull,  beating  up  against  the 
thrust  of  the  snow-tanged  easterly  breeze. 

Nearer  and  nearer  flew  the  'plane.  Now  one  could  see  it 
distinctly.  A  French  machine  by  its  blue-white-red  rings, 
and  a  Caudron  by  its  great  square  tail.  A  silver-grey  mono- 
plane scurried  in  its  wake,  a  Weiss  by  the  backward  curve  of 
its  wing-tips.  The  whirr  of  its  tractor  and  the  blatter  of  its 
machine-gun  wakened  the  echoes  sleeping  among  the  lep- 
rous white  ruins  of  the  city.  The  Caudron  wheeled  and 
circled  beautifully,  and  the  trac-trac  of  its  mitraille  an- 
swered the  machine-gun,  and  spent  bullets  began  to  patter 
on  the  Plaine  far  below. 

Suddenly  the  Frenchman  banked  and  began  to  climb. 
The  Weiss,  its  aluminium  sheathing  glittering  in  the  sun- 
shine, climbed  too,  so  rapidly  that  the  enemy's  purpose  was 
foiled.  Then,  at  a  great  height  they  circled  round  each 
other,  and  the  crack  and  flare  of  explosive  revolver-bullets 
began  to  mingle  with  the  blatter  and  trac-trac,  and  little 
blobs  of  something  that  blazed  and  sputtered  wickedly 
began  to  drop  v/ith  the  bullets  that  tumbled  out  of  the  skies. 


6i4  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

It  was  the  prettiest  sight.  It  suggested  the  amorous 
dallying  of  two  big  butterflies,  the  squabble  of  a  pair  of 
hawking  swallows,  and  yet  the  issues  were  Life  and  Death. 
Suddenly  the  Weiss  took  to  flight.  A  second  Caudron  had 
showed  upon  the  distance  and  the  Kaiser's  flier  was  not 
taking  any  more  on.  Waiting  for  his  countryman  to  come 
abreast,  the  Frenchman  hovered  like  a  kite-hawk.  And  at 
the  familiar  buzz  of  the  horizontal  screws  a  visible  thrill 
went  through  Sherbrand.  He  took  off  the  smoked  glasses 
that  he  wore,  and  turned  his  blind  eyes  upwards  towards  the 
sound,  and  on  his  haggard  face  was  stamped  the  anguish  of 
his  despair. 

"  My  poor  boy ! "  nearly  broke  from  Patrine,  and  hot  tears 
scalded  her  eyelids.  He  started,  though  she  had  uttered  no 
word,  and  brought  down  those  unseeing  eyes.  His  nostrils 
expanded  as  he  inhaled  the  air.  His  thick  fair  brows  con- 
tracted. The  first  Caudron,  exchanging  signals  with  the 
second,  had  ceased  hovering  and  floated  onwards,  but  Sher- 
brand's  thoughts  had  been  brought  down  out  of  his  sky. 

' '  What  is  it  ?  .  .  .  Why  ? ' '  said  the  intent  and  frowning 
look.  He  snuffed  the  air  again  and  pondered  still,  and  sud- 
denly Patrine  comprehended.  Some  waft  of  perfimie  from 
her  hair  or  clothes  had  reached  the  sense  made  keener  by 
his  blindness,  evoked  some  once-loved  image,  roused  some 
memory  of  her. 

She  crouched  low,  and  looked  up  at  the  lean,  lined  visage 
yearningly.  Dear  heart  I  how  changed  he  was  to-day  from 
her  young  Mercury  of  the  Mi  lies  Plaisirs.  And  yet  this 
altered  face  of  his,  marred  by  the  broad,  new -healed  scar 
that  traversed  the  left  cheek  and  temple,  and  the  cloudy 
look  of  suffering  in  the  prominent  grey-blue  eyes,  was  dearer 
than  ever  to  Patrine. 

How  bravely  the  ribbon  of  the  Croix  de  Guerre  and 
the  purple,  green,  and  silver  of  the  Belgian  Order  showed 
against  the  war-stained  khaki.     What  woman  living  would 


Love  That  Has  Wings  615 

not  glory  in  such  a  lover,  welcome  the  sacred  charge,  rejoice 
to  be  his  guide  and  minister!  .  .  .  "Oh,  my  blind  eagle, 
to  sit  mateless  in  the  darkness  shall  not  be  your  fate,  God 
being  good  to  me ! ' '  Some  words  like  these  were  on  the  lips 
of  Patrine. 

But  the  words  were  unspoken.  He  was  turning  those 
cloudy,  troubled  eyes  towards  his  unseen  sky  again  as 
though  trying  to  project  the  vision  of  his  soul  through  the 
depths  of  aerial  distance.  Then  he  desisted  as  though 
wearied  by  the  effort.  His  stern  face  softened  to  dreamy 
tenderness.  His  lips  moved.  Very  quietly,  but  with 
infinite  wistfulness,  he  uttered  her  own  name: 

"Patrine!     Patrine!" 

He  was  thinking  of  her — he  was  dreaming  of  her — he  was 
still  her  lover.  She  knew  a  joyful  shock,  a  checking  of  the 
pulses.  .  .  .  Then  her  blood  whirled  on  its  crimson  circle 
as  though  arteries  and  veins  were  brimmed  with  wine.  Her 
bosom  heaved,  her  eyes  were  misty  jewels,  and  out  of  the 
wonderful  silence  about  them  came  to  her  the  low,  sweet 
soughing  of  her  long-lost  Wind  of  Joy. 

She  moved  to  Sherbrand,  kissed  him  full  upon  the  mouth, 
and  called  him:  "Alan!"  And  a  great  cry  broke  from  him 
— a  cry  of  wonder,  triumph,  and  joy.  As  his  arms  swept 
out  to  enfold  her  she  knew  that  she  had  conquered.  She 
had  not  been  deceived  in  reading  love  between  the  formal 
lines. 

"Life  has  nothing  more  to  give!"  was  Patrinc's  thought 
as  his  arms  held  her.  It  seemed  that  Death  would  be  a 
tiny  price  to  pay  for  such  a  wonderful  moment  as  this. 

"My  love,  my  love!  Did  you  really  think  we  could  live 
without  each  other?"  she  stammered  through  his  eager 
kisses.  "Didn't  you  know  I  would  have  to  come  and  carry 
you  back  home  by  the  hair  of  your  head  ?  Did  you  dare  to 
dream  that  I  or  any  of  the  people  who  love  you  could  get 
on  without  you?  Your  mother,  and  Aunt  Lynette — and 
Bawnc  and  Uncle  Owen — and  Sir  Roland — who  managed 


6i6  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

things  for  me  to  come  to  you ! — and  Margot  and  her  boy  .  .  . 
for  there  is  a  boy — a  regular  topper — born  last  November — 
with  eyes  just  like  poor  Franky's!  And  you're  to  come 
back  and  be  kind  to  him  and  his  mother — because  you 
promised  Franky  you  would!  So  that  old  ghost  of  your 
succession  to  the  Viscounty  is  laid — and  I'm  glad  of  it! 
Another  stone  heaved  out  of  the  way  that  leads  me  back 
to  you!" 

She  went  on,  holding  him  as  he  held  her  embraced,  pour- 
ing herself  out  in  a  swift  rush  of  eager  utterance: 

"Come  back  and  help  us  readjust  values.  Everything's 
changed — everything's  altered — since  the  beginning  of  the 
War.  We  women  have  found  out — even  the  idlest  and  the 
vainest  of  us — that  the  things  we  used  to  live  for  really 
meant  nothing!  What  we  have  called  Society  is  a  box  of 
broken  toys.  The  plays  we  have  laughed  or  cried  at — the 
books  we  have  read — the  music  we  have  gone  rabid  over — 
the  frocks  we  have  sported — the  flirtations  we  have  revelled 
in — the  scandals  we  have  discussed — none  of  these  mean 
anything,  count  for  anything — weigh  anything!  Nothing 
is  real  but  Life — and  Love — and  Death.  Not  life  like  the 
life  we  used  to  know — nor  love  like  the  love  we  talked  of. 
A  life  of  work,  and  help,  and  prayer,  and  hope — and  cour- 
age— and  the  kind  of  love  that  has  wings  and  doesn't  crawl 
in  the  mud.  Nothing  like  the  Death  we  used  to  dodge  and 
blink  and  dread  so,  but  something  nobler.  Something  that 
leads  through  the  Gate  of  the  Grave — to  God!  Don't 
you  see  that  the  War  was  sent  to  change  us? — don't  you 
see " 

He  cried  out : 

" I  shall  never  see  again!"  An  ugly  spasm  wrenched  his 
jaw  aside.  "  They  think  I  take  it  pluckily.  But  every 
night  I  dream  it  over  once  more — and  the  sky  is  rushing 
back,  and  the  ground  is  swirling  up — and  the  Bird  is  top- 
pling, spinning  downwards,  in  a  trail  of  smoke  and  fire.  I 
can  hear  my  observer  screaming,  poor,  poor  fellow!     How  I 


f 


Love  That  Has  Wings  617 

escaped  burning  I  don't  know.  Then  comes  the  crash! — 
and  the  grey  void  of  Nothingness  out  of  which,  aeons  later, 
I  crawl  into  a  blind  man's  dreadful  world.  A  world  that  is 
all  sounds  and  voices  and  sounds  and  touches.  A  world 
where  I  must  live — and  die — in  the  dark ! ' ' 

She  said  in  her  deep  sweet  voice,  with  her  velvet  cheek 
pressed  against  Sherbrand's: 

"With  me.  And  suppose  you  saw  me,  and  could  not  feel 
nor  hear  me?" 

She  felt  him  shudder  as  he  answered: 

"The  thing  would  be  Hell!" 

"Well,  then,  let  me  try  and  make  the  best  of  it!  For 
both  of  us,  my  dear  one ! "  She  pressed  closer  to  his  breast, 
magnetising  him  with  her  touch,  her  breath,  her  presence, 
summoning  all  her  forces  of  womanly  allurements  to  charm 
him  from  despair.  "Couldn't  I  reconcile  my  lover  to  the 
dark?"  she  whispered. 

"Are  you  cold,  dearest?"  he  asked.  For  as  the  last 
words  left  her  lips  a  sharp  vibration  had  passed  through  her. 
"You  shivered  as  though  you  were." 

"Perhaps?  ...  I  hardly  know,"  said  Patrinc,  thrust- 
ing away  the  loathed  memory  of  the  Upas.  "Perhaps  the 
wind  has  shifted — or  a  goose  walked  over  my  grave." 

She  changed  her  tone  and  began  to  tell  him  how  Margot 
had  evicted  her  Uncle  Derek  and  his  Lepidopthingambobs 
and  handed  over  the  caravanserai  in  Hanover  Square  to  the 
Red  Cross  people  for  a  Hospital — and  how  all  the  wards 
were  to  be  covered  with  vulcanised  rubber — not  a  corner  to 
catch  a  dust-speck  anywhere.  And  she  went  on  to  de- 
scribe her  journey  in  search  of  Sherbrand,  and  her  dis- 
appointment at  finding  him  absent  from  the  Hospital  at 
Pophereele — and  the  kindness  shown  her  by  the  Monseig- 
neur  who  had  escorted  her  from  St.  O — ,  and  subsequently 
insisted  on  accompanying  her  here. 

"For  it's  supposed  to  be  risky,  "  she  ended,  smiling.  "He 
says — to  me  it  seems  like  spitting  in  the  face  of  a  dead  body  I 


6i8  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

— that  the  Germans  shell  the  poor  place  nearly  every- 
day." 

"It's  true.  They've  pitched  High  Explosive  in  once 
already  this  morning — and  as  I  mean  to  marry  you  to-mor- 
row, "  said  Sherbrand,  "we  had  better  be  oflf  out  of  it  before 
they  repeat  the  dose."  He  added:  "There's  an  EngHsh 
Catholic  priest  at  the  Hospital — and  I've  my  Special 
Licence  still  tucked  away  in  a  pocket!" 

She  exclaimed  in  delight : 

"Then  you  never  meant  to  give  me  up?  Own  it — you 
didn't!" 

"It  was  you  who  took  your  solid  oath  you  wouldn't  marry 


me." 


"Unless  you  were  poor  and  ill — and  wanted  a  woman  to 
nurse  you  and  look  after  you" — her  voice  broke — "and 
work  for  you!  Oh,  Boy! — no,  not  boy  any  more!  My 
man  of  all  the  men  that  ever  were  or  will  be !  Don't  refuse  me 
the  right  my  love  gives  me — of  working  for  you ! "  she  urged. 

"Such  true  love.  Such  fine  love.  Pat,  you're  a  glory  of 
a  woman.  And  you  shall  work — I'll  give  you  lots  of  work,  " 
he  promised  her.     "But — my  sweet  girl,  I'm  not  poor. " 

She  asked  him  in  her  deep  sweet  voice: 

"Do  you  think  you'd  be  poor  to  me — if  you  hadn't  a 
copper  halfpenny?"  And  with  his  arm  about  her  still,  and 
her  heart  beating  against  his  hand,  as  they  moved  over  the 
grass  together,  she  began  to  describe  their  home.  Quite  a 
small,  unpretending,  but  comfortable  home.  The  home  of 
two  people  who  adored  each  other,  and  wanted  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  go  on  doing  it  up  to  the  last  day  of  their  lives. 

' '  We'll  have  children — stacks ! ' '  she  assured  him.  ' '  Long- 
legged  boys  with  beaky,  hatchet  faces — boys  who'll  invent 
and  build  aeroplanes  and  fly  them  too,  you  bet ! " 

"And  girls, "  put  in  Sherbrand,  tightening  his  clasp  about 
the  supple  womanly  body,  "great  big  galumphing  girls, 
like  their  mother!" 


Love  That  Has  Wings  619 


"The  sweets!"  she  sighed.     "I  can  see  them  now!" 

"Ah,  that's  what  I  shan't  do  ever,"  said  Sherbrand. 
"Don't  you  think  they'll  be  bored  with  their  blind  father,, 
sometimes,  Pat?" 

"Just  let  them  dare!  Let  them — that's  all!"  She 
winked  away  the  tears  crowding  to  her  eyelashes.  "Besides 
you  mayn't  be  always  blind — I'll  never  give  up  praying! 
Didn't  that  American  surgeon  at  the  Hospital  say  that  cases 
of  functional  blindness  from  shock — like  yours — supposing 
there  is  no  serious  lesion  in  the  brain — have  been  known  to 
recover  sight  suddenly  and  completely?  Don't  shake  your 
head!  Isn't  there  a  chance — a  blessed  possibility — to  cling 
to,  and  fight  for?  Ah!  if  you  were  cured,  don't  you  know 
I'd  send  you  back  to  the  Front  next  day?  Don't  you,  Alan? 
Yes! — yes!  you  do!"  The  bright  drops  rushed  in  spate 
over  her  underlids,  and  hopped  over  the  front  of  her  long 
blue  coat,  to  lose  themselves  among  the  frosted  grasses  as 
she  went  hotly  on : 

"Don't  you  believe — you  must  believe — I'd  lay  down  my 
life — just  for  the  glory  of  doing  that !  Perhaps  I  usedn't  to 
care  much  about  England — before  the  War.  But  now 
I've  found  out  what  it  means  to  be  a  pup  of  the  old  bull- 
mother, — I'd  meet  Death  jumping — rather  than  fail  of 
doing  my  bit.     What's  up? " 

Someone  had  whistled  shrilly  behind  them,  and  she 
wheeled,  to  see  Monseigneur  and  a  Red  Cross  orderly 
beckoning  and  signalling,  standing  on  a  heap  of  rubbish 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  Plaine.  Sherbrand,  for  whom  the 
call  was  meant,  waved  his  stick  and  whistled  in  answer. 
The  orderly,  at  a  gesture  from  Monseigneur,  got  nimbly 
down  from  the  rubbish-heap  and  started  to  cross  the  inter- 
vening stretch  of  grass. 

"Why  is  he  coming?"  began  Patrine,  vexedly. 

"To  fetch  the  blind  man,  I  suppose." 

"Ah-h!"  Her  long  eyes  blazed  resentment.  "If  any- 
one but  yourself  had   called   you   that!  .  .  .     Send   him 


620  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

back!"  she  pleaded,  jealously.  "From  henceforward  no- 
body is  to  fetch  you — or  carry  you  either,  except  Me!" 

So  Sherbrand  laughed  in  his  companioned  darkness, 
waved  again,  and  shouted  to  the  orderly  to  go  back.  What 
he  said  was  lost  in  the  racket  accompanying  the  arrival  of  a 
German  H.E.  shell. 

For  still  at  intervals  during  each  day  and  sometimes  at 
night-time  the  sad  dignity  of  the  deserted  City  of  the  Salient 
was  outraged  by  these  monstrous  messengers  of  hate.  The 
thing  came  from  the  enemy's  position  east  of  the  city,  and 
fell  with  a  hideous  droning  note  in  the  wooded  park  by  the 
Dixmude  Gate. 

A  shattering  crash  followed — as  though  the  roof  of  the 
world  were  timibling  in.  The  green  park  of  budding  trees 
was  rent  and  splintered,  cratered  and  riven  as  though  a 
Dinosaur  had  died  there  of  acute  rabies,  biting  and  tearing 
and  howking  up  the  earth. 

Love  is  a  wonderful  wit-quickener  in  necessity.  It 
taught  Patrine  Saxham,  the  woman  of  limitations,  exactly 
what  to  do  at  the  moment  when  the  great  shell  droned 
down  to  ground.  Irresistible  as  a  mountain  torrent,  she 
leaped  straight  for  the  blind  man  before  her,  hurling  him 
backwards  by  the  sudden  impact,  over-balancing  and 
bearing  him  down.  Pinning  him  with  the  sheer  weight 
of  her  vigorous  young  body — covering  him  as  Nature 
teaches  a  tigress  to  cover  her  menaced  cub,  whilst  their  ears 
were  deafened  with  the  appalling  detonation,  the  solid  earth 
heaved  and  billowed  under  their  prone,  locked  bodies,  and 
the  air  surged  and  winnowed  about  them  as  though  beaten 
by  the  passage  of  huge  invisible  wings. 

"Is  this  Death?"  she  asked  herself.  "Then— for  both!" 
was  her  half-conscious  prayer.  But  Death  passed  by  in  a 
blizzard  of  scorching  gases,  splinters  of  rending  steel,  gravel, 
and  stones,  splintered  timber  and  pulverised  soil,  leaving 
a  huge  cloud  of  reddish-yellow  billowing  over  the  Plaine 
d'Amour.     A  brown  powder  that  stank  of  verbena,  thicklv 


Love  That  Has  Wings  621 

coated  all  visible  objects.  Hair,  skin,  and  clothes  were 
tinted  to  uniformity,  and  a  smothering  oppression  burdened 
the  lungs.  Yet  as  Patrine  lay  gasping,  nerveless,  beaten, 
that  fierce  new-kindled  instinct  of  protection  lived  in  her, 
potent,  vital  with  possibilities  as  the  spark  in  the  battery 
or  the  germ  in  the  cell. 

The  Great  Test  had  found  her  not  wanting  nor  unready. 
The  dross  of  self  had  been  burned  away  in  the  flame  of  a 
passion  high  and  pure.  The  Crown  of  a  noble  womanhood 
was  hers  in  that  great  moment  when  her  body  had  made 
a  rampart  for  the  shielding  of  her  love. 

"Under  the  heave  of  her  bosom  Sherbrand's  broad  chest 
panted.  He  lived — and  her  heart  went  up  in  a  rush  of 
passionate  thanks  to  Heaven.  She  moved  from  him, 
quaking  in  every  nerve  and  fibre,  crouched  beside  him, 
found  her  handkerchief,  and  wiped  the  pungent  dust  from 
his  face.  It  was  pale,  the  mouth  and  eyes  were  closed,  the 
nostrils  fluttered  with  quick  panting.  His  head  had  struck 
against  the  ground  when  her  leap  had  hurled  him  back- 
wards. He  had  been  stunned,  she  told  herself.  He  would 
revive  soon. 

"Patrine!"  he  choked  out,  opening  his  eyes. 

"Pat's  here  by  you,  my  darling ! "  She  slipped  her  strong 
arm  under  his  neck  and  helped  him  to  sit  up: 

"You're  not  hurt?"  His  lungs  pumped  hard,  and  his 
reddened  eyes  ran  water.  He  blinked  it  away  and  caught 
her  hands,  crushing  them  in  his  grip.  "You're  sure  you're 
not?" 

"Quite,  quite  sure!     And  you're  all  right,  aren't  you?" 

"As  right  as  rain,  except  for  a  bump  on  the  head!"  He 
freed  a  hand  and  rubbed  it.  "When  the  shell  came  over — 
and  the  ground  rose  up  and  hit  me.     How  did  it  happen?" 

"  I — hardly  know.  Oh,  Alan !  God  has  been  good  co  us ! 
Hasn't  He?" 

There  was  no  immediate  response.  Sherbrand's  lean 
face  was  working.     He  rose  to  his  knees  and  thus  remained 


622  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

an  instant,  in  silence  that  gave  thanks.  Then  he  got  lightly 
on  his  feet,  reached  down  and  lifted  Patrine.  And  thus 
they  stood,  the  girl  clinging  to  the  young  man's  broad 
shoulders  as  he  held  her,  the  tears  from  her  own  still  smarting 
eyes  tracing  white  channels  in  the  dust  that  masked  her 
quivering  face. 

"You  and  I!  .  .  .  My  hat! — "  she  gasped— "what  a 
precious  pair  of  scallawags !  You  lose  nothing  in  not  being 
able  to  see,  my  Flying  Man! — just  now.  Oh!  but  the 
station !     And  the  park ' ' 

She  stopped  in  sheer  astonishment.  For  the  deadliest 
fury  of  the  High  Explosive  had  wreaked  itself  on  the  bit  of 
municipal  woodland.  With  the  electric  train-station  that 
had  neighboured  it,  and  the  abattoirs  in  its  vicinity,  it  had 
been  clean  wiped  out. 

"Come,"  said  Sherbrand, tightening  his  clasp  as  he  felt 
her  sway  against  him.  He  was  supporting — he  was  guid- 
ing as  they  turned  their  faces  south. 

Here  the  Death  that  had  passed  by  had  left  more  traces 
of  its  passage.  The  rent  carcase  of  a  gaunt  cow  that  had 
grazed  upon  the  Plaine  d'Amour,  lay  in  a  steaming  crimson 
pool  among  the  frosty  grasses;  and  beyond,  some  thirty 
paces  from  the  Rue  d'Elverdinghe,  where  the  automobiles 
waited  near  the  ruins  of  the  prison,  Monseigneur  in  his 
flowing  black  cloak  knelt  over  a  stained  bundle  of  ragged 
blue  clothing  and  shattered  humanity,  and  the  Belgian  and 
his  fellow-chauffeur  were  bringing  a  stretcher  from  the  Red 
Cross  car.  .  .  . 

"The  poor  orderly  has  been  wounded  .  .  .  No!  .  .  . 
killed!"  flashed  through  Patrine's  mind  as  Monseigneur 
glanced  towards  her,  gesturing  with  a  supple  hand  in  a  swift 
expressive  way.  "  I  must  go  over  there — I  may  be  wanted," 
she  mentally  added,  controlling  her  sick  shudder  and 
reached  back  to  take  again  the  hand  of  her  blind  man.  But 
a  sudden  exclamation  from  Sherbrand  brought  round  her 


Love  That  Has  Wings  623 

head,  and  the  strange  look  stamped  upon  the  face  she  loved, 
arrested  movement  and  checked  utterance. 

"What  is  it?  What  has  happened?"  she  forced  her 
stiffened  tongue  to  ask  him.  "Oh,  Alan !  tell  me !  You  are 
not  ill " 

"Not  ill!"  came  from  the  twisted  mouth,  wrung  and 
convulsed  with — was  it  joy  or  anguish  ?  He  shut  his  eyes, 
striving  for  calmness  and  coherent  speech  and  wrestling 
with  a  fierce  emotion  that  made  him  sway  and  totter  like  a 
drunken  man.  ' '  Give  me  your  hand — both  your  dear  hands ! 
Don't  mind  my  shutting  my  eyes — it'll  steady  me  to  tell 
you!  .  .  .  Just  now — when  you  let  go  of  me — something 
happened — and  I — saw!'' 

He  choked  upon  the  last  word.  She  faced  him,  white  and 
wild  and  desperate,  and  cried  in  a  voice  quite  strange  to 
Sherbrand's  ears: 

"You  saw!  .  .  .  My  God! — do  you  want  to  drive  me 
crazy?     Do  you  mean — you  can't  mean " 

"Does  the  truth  sound  so  insane?"  His  voice  broke  in 
a  sob.  He  opened  the  shut,  quivering  lids  through  which 
the  tears  were  streaming,  and  the  grey-blue  eyes  that 
looked  at  her  were  no  longer  the  dead  orbs  of  one 
blind.  Life  and  light  throbbed  in  their  depths,  they 
glov/ed  with  such  a  radiance  as  the  eyes  of  the  First 
Lover  may  have  shed  on  the  face  of  the  new-made  Eve. 
What  was  he  saying  in  shaken  tones  of  mingled  awe  and 
rapture : 

"I  saw  what  I  am  seeing  now.  Trees — and  green  grass, 
and  blue  sky — and  your  face !  Your  dear  face  that  stayed 
with  me  when  the  Big  Dark  blotted  out  the  rest.  .  .  .  More 
loving — more  lovely  than  ever  I  have  dreamed  it.  Oh !  Pat, 
did  ever  any  man  get  such  a  wedding-present?"  His  tone 
changed:  "My  sight  for  me — and  death  for  that  poor  chap 
there!  Can  it  be  Carpenter — the  American  who's  been  so 
good  to  me !  .  .  .  And  the  priest  helping  to  lift  him — the 
old  man  with  the  noble  face?  .  .  ,     Not   Monseigneur — 


624  That  Which  Hath  Wings 

our  Chaplain  at  the  Hospital!     He's  beckoning!     Come! 
Let's  run!" 


So  these  happy  lovers  with  Death  as  travelling-com- 
panion drove  away  from  the  City  of  the  Salient.  There 
was  a  wedding  next  morning  at  the  Hospital  of  Pophereele. 
And  twenty-four  hours  later,  the  big  black-capitalled 
broadsheets  bellowed  from  Ludgate  Hill  up  Fleet  Street 
and  along  the  Strand  to  Charing  Cross,  and  all  through 
the  West  End: 

"romantic  sequel  to  famous  aviator's  story,     sher- 

BRAND  of  the  R.F.C,  BLINDED  IN  AIR-BATTLE,  RECOVERS 
SIGHT  THROUGH  SHELL-SHOCK.  MARRIED  YESTERDAY.  RE- 
TURNS WITH   BRIDE.       CAPTAINCY   AND   D.S.O." 

A  closing  picture  of  a  young  couple  sitting  very  close 
together  on  a  rustic  seat  in  the  garden  of  a  cottage  on 
Seasheere  Downs,  where  hyacinths  bloom,  and  clumps  of 
pink-white  peonies,  and  the  Birds  of  War  whirr  over- 
head in  a  June's  sky  of  speedwell-blue. 

Patrine  Sherbrand  says  to  her  husband,  as  the  smoke  of 
British  transports  and  heavily-laden  supply-steamers  slants 
against  the  east  horizon,  and  the  knife-sharp  bows  of 
shepherding  Destroyers  cleave  the  grey-green  waters  of  the 
North  Sea: 

"If  without  dishonour  to  your  dear  name  it  lay  in  my 
power  to  keep  you  with  me,  do  you  think  I'd  have  it  so? 
Not  I!  I'll  have  you  carry  on  as  though  I'd  never  even 
existed.  Forme — the  work  that  lies  at  hand.  When  that's 
done — dreams  of  you.  If  you  were  killed  you'd  live  for  me 
— my  man  I  gave  for  England!  Our  England  that  they'll 
never  beat — not  even  if  they  win!" 

"Thanks,  my  sweet  wife !  Then  when  I  say — our  honey- 
moon is  over .'"' 

"Ah,  well!  .  .  .     How  soon?  ..." 


Love  That  Has  Wings  625 

He  told  her,  looking  in  her  eyes,  that  did  not  flinch  be- 
neath his: 

"In  four  days!  The  Medical  Board  finds  me  quite 
fit — and  there's  a  Flying  billet  waiting.  Our  Western 
Front.  ..." 

She  said,  as  her  heart  beat  on  his  and  their  mouths  met 
in  a  kiss  : 

"Then — four  more  days  of  love  with  me,  and  fly,  my  Bird 
of  War!" 

The  Chief  Scout  had  said  to  Sherbrand  in  those  days  of 
July,  1914:  "The  Saxham  breed's  a  stark  breed — hard  as 
granite,  supple  as  mcandescent  lava,  with  a  strain  of  Ber- 
serk madness,  and  a  dash  of  Oriental  fatalism.  They  can 
hate  magnificently  and  forgive  grandly,  and  love  to  the  very 
verge  of  Death." 

Sherbrand  had  found  it  so.  He  thanked  God  that  this 
heart  that  he  had  won  would  never  change  nor  fail  him. 
He  knew  that  he  could  call  his  own  the  love  that  reaches 
living  hands  to  Love  beyond  the  grave. 


THE  END 

40 


I 


The 

Secret  of  the  Marne 

How  Sergeant  Fritsch  Saved  France 


By 
Marcel  Berger 

Author  of  "  Ordeal  by  Fire  " 

and 

Maude  Berger 

12^ ,     $1.50  net.     By  mail,  $1.65 

In  a  novel  rivalling  the  most  exciting  de- 
tective story,  but  written  with  amazing  power, 
the  authors  build  their  story  around  that 
glorious  Marne  week,  when  von  Kluck  and 
his  cohorts  turned  to  the  southeast  instead 
of  rushing  on  Paris.  Why  did  he  make  this 
initial  mistake  that  resulted  in  the  Victory  of 
the  Marne!  There  was  a  young  French 
sergeant  who  knew,  a  witty,  daringly  brave 
young  man,  a  magnificent  linguist,  and  expert 
tactician, — and  his  ladylove,  the  beautiful 
Marie-Anne,  daughter  of  the  stern  old  Mar- 
quis de  Serazereux,  knew  too. 

Marcel  Berger  studied  closely  as  soldier, 
and  later  as  visitor,  the  several  regions  de- 
scribed, and  the  novel  is  as  accurate  in 
historical  detail  as  it  is  astounding  in  invention. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Ordeal  by  Fire 


By 

Marcel  Berger 

A  Sergeant  in  the  French  Army 
IT.     540  pages.     $1.50.     By  mail  $1.65 


The  French  "Mr.  Britling" 

Everyone  who  has  read  "Mr. 
Britling  Sees  It  Through"  will 
want  to  read  **  Ordeal  by  Fire." 

An  inspiring  portrayal  of  the 
spirit  of  the  French  people  and 
of  Fighting  France. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


GREATHEART 

By  Ethel  M.  Dell 

Author  of  "  The  Way  of  an  Eagle,"  "  The  Rocks  of  Valpre,"  "  The 
Keeper  of  the  Door,"  "  Bars  of  Iron,"  "  The  Hundredth  Chance,"  etc. 


72°.  Color  Frontispiece.  $1.50  net.  By  mail,  $1.65 


SURELY  Miss  Dell  has  never  written  any- 
thing more  deserving  of  the  title  "  best 
seller"  than  this  absorbing  story,  which 
takes  an  elemental  grip  on  the  reader  to  an 
amazing  degree. 

The  flirtation  of  a  young  girl,  released  for 
a  brief  time  from  the  harsh  restraint  of  an 
unlovely  home,  develops  until  it  assumes 
overmastering  proportions,  and  she  is  barely 
saved  from  herself  by  the  steadfast  loyalty, 
unspoken  love,  and  great  moral  courage  of 
the  physically  weak  brother  of  her  handsome, 
impulsive,  and  philandering  lover.  The  scene 
is  largely  laid  in  Switzerland,  and  the  ravish- 
ing beauty  of  that  lovely  land  is  painted  with 
admirable  skill. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The 
Smiting  of  the  Rock 

A  Tale  of  Oregon 

By  Palmer  Bend 


12^.     Frontis.  by  Belmore  Browne 
$1.50  net.     By  mail,  $1.65 


CLEAR,  clean,  well-written  is  this 
story  of  the  adventures  brought 
to  David  Kent  by  "a  plain-faced 
Bishop,  a  superlatively  pretty  girl,  and 
a  quixotic  resolution" — a  book  to  re>^ 
ftesh  and  appeal. 

It  is  sunny  with  the  spirit  of  the  west- 
ern country,  the  magnificent  mountains, 
and  the  whole-hearted  pioneers  of  to- 
day. It  is  a  tale  of  failure  and  success, 
of  love  and  youth  and  dramatic  con- 
trast, lit  with  humor  and  warm  with 
the  breath  of  life  and  actuality. 


G.  p.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below 


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